Toil and trouble
by esama
Summary: Some random ideas and unfinished stories, mostly Harry centric AUs and crossovers.
1. Fantastic Trouble, 7 random drabbles

**Fantastic Trouble**

**1. Mudblood spell**

_... and there by all those who are found to be of Muggle Descent and have been found to have Magic Stealers in their family lines, will be here by purged of their unnaturally won Magical Abilities and returned to their Proper Descent as Magicless and Unwanted._

"It'll be a funny old world, from now on," Ron said with a sad sigh, dropping his wand to the floor in defeat. "Leave it to death eaters to muck whole magical race up, huh?"

"Yeah. But then, who would've thought?" Harry mused while watching over a huge crowd of former pureblood wizards, trying in vain to wave their now useless wands as every magical human in the world lost their so called unnaturally won magical abilities.

"I did," Hermione answered, holding out a canister towards him. In the ministry atrium, Lucius Malfoy was trying to helplessly say that he was a pureblood, that his family went back in centuries, that was fully magical… even as his wand did absolutely nothing for him. "Popcorn, Harry?"

**2. Blood ward**

Dumbledore looked down to the child in shock, not sure what to think. He had been expecting a child of eleven years with black hair and green eyes, maybe with subdued personality and smaller than normal frame. Ever since the Dursleys had been killed in car crash, the boy had been living in a muggle orphanage after all, and those did not treat their occupants as well as one might've hoped for.

Instead, there was no _child_. What had answered the Hogwarts letter and what had written down his acceptance wasn't even a human, but a cloud of shimmering red that surrounding the orphanage, invisible for Muggles but plain clear for him. "You are the headmaster?" the cloud asked, it's odd bodiless voice echoing and curious, and suddenly it was sucked into a single point like water down the drain, forming into a human-shaped form, and then solidifying into a child of blood red throughout. "Hello," the blood child greeted. "I have been waiting for you."

"Wh-what are you?" the old man asked, horrified, and immediately knew. The ward, he realised, the one he had created, the one that had been powered mother's love and _blood_, the ward that had been left drifting and aimless after the death of the Dursleys, only focus point being Harry Potter himself…

The blood child smiled, his skin shimmering and breaking a little around the edges, like trying to break out of the corporeal form and back into the shimmer of raw bloody power it had been before. "I'm Harry Potter, of course," he said, and Dumbledore couldn't say if the blood ward had consumed him, or if he had consumed the ward.

**3. Harry Voldemort Potter**

The boy frowned to himself while looking up from the old copy of Daily Prophet - about five years old in fact - which announced both his doom and his triumph, naming him dead and the Boy Who Lived in one go. It wasn't what he had been expecting, certainly not what he had been preparing for, but perhaps there was some merit in it, something he could use. The wizarding world had announced Harry Potter their hero and saviour and the conqueror of the dark, and that he could definitely use.

There were more advantages in taking over an infant's body, it seemed, than renewed youth and semblance of resurrection, Voldemort mused leaning back in the worn chair and glancing around in the magical branch of British Library. He looked down to his hands - small and weak and _new_ and growing - and smiled. Accidentally he had given himself youth, anonymity, a pureblood name and incredible _fame_ in one go while taking out a potential threat. Luck such as that could only serve someone like him.

**4. Neville Potter**

"Sorry, old boy, I wish there was another way," Harry said gently as infant Neville's spirit dwindled under the pressure of his much older soul, and withered away. Shaking his spiritual head sadly, he stretched out his arms and locked himself into the infant's body, making its own.

Ten years later, Neville took the brunt of Snape's anger and made his cauldron into a careful target for the Slytherins so that he could carefully shield others from the explosions. He stood silently in shadows and aimed his wand at the seventh year Slytherin, trying to curse Harry Potter when the boy wasn't looking. He sneaked behind professor Quirrell, cast a hex to stop him from jinxing Harry's broom. Under disillusionment charm, he hid in the ceiling beams and aimed a very precise spell down to the troll's neck. Unknown, he cast fire-proof charms on Harry and in the forest he chased Quirrell away with a battle hex. At the end of the year when Harry fell unconscious under Quirrell's grip, Neville's Reducto cut the man's head off, stopping him from killing the boy.

"This is surprisingly lot of work," he mused down to his unconscious self, straightening his collar and heading away. The following years would be even longer, he thought.

**5. Ron through time**

"Okay, let's make things clear," the tall red haired man said to more or less terrified six-year-old Harry Potter. "I'm not good at this; I'm probably going to muck lot of things up. I'll be stupid and act like a git and get things wrong, I'll take up smoking and smell bad and probably drink whole lot more than I ought to. In that case, you're allowed to kick me, slap me with a rolled up news paper, pour a bucket of water down my neck and whatever other means of reasoning you can think of. Are we clear?"

"Uh…" the boy said, wide eyed and pretty confused.

"Good," the man nodded, satisfied, and took out a book from the pocket of his coat. "Okay, now you need to help me with this. Hermione wrote it all down for me, but I'll be damned if I can make out what most of this means. If we can figure it out, we ought to be able to get a house and stuff like that," he said pulling the boy closer and pointing down to long series of numbers on the page. "Now, what can you make of these?"

"Uh," the boy said again but looked down, squinting through a broken pair of eyeglasses. "I think they might be lottery numbers" he finally offered cautiously, looking up to the crazy man. "And there are dates too," he added helpfully, figuring that the crazy man couldn't be all that bad, as he had taken him away from the Dursleys. "And I think those have something to do with horse racing - I've seen them in Uncle Vernon's newspaper sometimes…"

"Oh, bloody hell, that's _brilliant_. Thank _you_ Hermione," the redhead grinned and lifted Harry to one arm. "Alright, let's go and gamble. Or wait… You wouldn't happen to have any muggle money on you? Those, uh, what are they called, squids? No, wait, quids? Something like that."

"Sorry, sir," Harry said, clinging to the man's neck and looking down with wide eyes. He had never been so high up.

"Ah. Well, we'll figure something out," the redhead said cheerfully, and whisked Harry away into a new completely brilliant and pretty damn mental life.

**6. Lord of Matchsticks**

"What are you going to do?" Ron asked worriedly. "About the duel with Malfoy? You only know two spells, right?"

"Yeah, and Malfoy probably has had his parents teaching him all sort of curses since before he could talk and walk," Harry agreed darkly, thinking about the two more or less useless spells he had. He could, with some success, turn matchstick into a needle, and levitate small objects. None of which was particularly useful in a duel - unless he managed to shatter Malfoy's wand somehow, turn the splinters into needles and…

"Wait a minute," he murmured, as a thought came to him, and started grinning.

A week and long hours of gruelling practice later Harry was ready, and arrived to the appointed place with pockets full of matchsticks. After moment of waiting, Malfoy finally came as well and started jeering, "I didn't think you'd have the guts to come, Potter!" at him.

They bowed at each other, Malfoy mockingly and Harry with a frown of concentration. The blond laughed uproariously when Harry started the duel by scattering hundreds and hundreds of matchsticks around the floor, saying, "What, do you think you can win by lighting me on fire?"

He only laughed harder as Harry carefully incanted the simplest of all transfiguration spells, ridiculously over powered by his desperation, and turned the hundreds of matchsticks into hundreds of sharp silver needles. He stopped laughing when Harry incanted the simplest of all charms and floated all the matchsticks into air, all pointed at him. "Feel the power of small pointy objects!" the Gryffindor roared, and sent them flying.

Ever since that day, Harry Potter was never seen without a matchstick on his lips and box of them rattling away in his pocket - and Draco Malfoy was forever branded with the healthy fear of needles.

**7. Antisubmissive**

"How about you just tell me the bloody point already without all the bloody circling about and I'll tell you if I bloody well care or not?"

Dumbledore frowned disapprovingly to young Harry Potter, and sighed. "Very well. Due to the nature your magic, magical beings and wizards with creature blood in them will find you to be quite the eligible choice of mate," he said slowly. "You are, in short, a _submissive_ in nature, and thus certain magical creatures and humans with creature blood in them will seek to dominate you. Because of this, it is vital that you choose yourself a suitable mate to balance out the pheromones and -"

"Wait, wait, stop. I'm producing some sort of magical _bottom_ pheromones, which is why creatures like Dobby will want to hump my leg now?" Harry asked, with disbelief.

"Well, not house elves. But vampires, werewolves, veelas -"

"Goblins?" Harry asked, looking disgusted.

"No, no, no. I mean the more humanoid creatures," Dumbledore assured kindly. "Bishies and such."

"I don't even want to know what sort of magical creature a bishie is," Harry muttered shuddering. "Okay, so, when is this thing going away?"

"It will not, not before you mate," the headmaster said remorsefully.

"Aand until I do, I'm in danger of being jumped by professor Lupin?" Harry asked, just to be sure. "Wait, is this why Malfoy has been giving me odd looks? I bet he's a half veela or something. Cripes this is why Snape's been giving me points for having my hair done nicely? What is he, a half-barber?" he asked, increasingly horrified. "Oh Merlin, and that seventh year Ravenclaw who really, really wanted to give me a massage. Oh, and that weirdo from Hufflepuff…" he trailed away, more sickened by the moment.

"Yes. Now do you understand the need for mating?" Dumbledore asked, frowning. "Before the pheromones are balanced out or covered by those of more dominant magician, you cannot return to the normal way of your life. Now, professor Snape is quite willing and qualified -"

"Professor, I demand the right to visit to London," Harry cut in with a wild look about his face. "I need to do some shopping. Immediately. This is of vital importance."

The professor was taken aback for a moment, and then he smiled. Obviously Harry wanted to buy something nice to wear for his mate. "Of course I will permit this," he agreed, nodding and begun already making Portkeys for the trip there and back. "Make sure to buy something especially effective -"

"Oh I will," Harry promised fervently, took the Portkeys and dashed off, leaving the headmaster feeling accomplished and certain that things would work out quite well.

Four hours later, Harry returned wearing a dragon hide armour and armed to teeth. "Okay, who wants to go out on a date?" he asked manically, a charmed chainsaw roaring away in his hands. "It's a nice night outside. Anyone?"

x

I've had lots of unfinished Harry Potter ideas piling up lately, so I thought I might as well make a place to put them. So, here be unfinished ideas, plot bunnies and such for Harry Potter and maybe some Harry Potter / InsertFandomHere crossovers and such. Some will be slash, some will be gen, few will be het, most will be weird, all will be mostly unfinished. My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	2. The boy and his x, Harry joins Voldemort

Warnigs for Crack, OOCness, Stupidity, Manipulative People, Creature Voldemort and the usual.

**The boy and his x**

The Mess, as Harry Potter would fondly call it for centuries to come, started with a curse of brilliant green. Of course, he didn't know it then, nor would he ever, not truly. He and the whole world would forever blame that one little killing curse, certainly, but for all the wrong reasons. For most of the world, the killing curse ended one war, started era of peace, ruined a family, created a hero and gave birth to a legendary pair of enemies - and for one little curse, those were no small accomplishments. However, all that was mostly inconsequential. What mattered, were the little things.

Unknown by all, Harry Potter suffered a minute, completely unnoticeable brain damage due to the spell and its lesser known effects of tearing apart souls - and in one rare case, namely this one, combining one with another. The addition of extra bit of soul, as important as it was, was not the point however. The point was in the tiny imbalance it caused in the receiver's brain, smallest shift of chemicals and hormones that regulated the boy's certain base emotions.

The change was not big, the boy did not lose whole sets of emotions or became unable to feel them - but hence forth he was very inclined towards quickly learning practicality and witty humour that surfaced in the most inappropriate moments. This made him quickly adjust himself to his new circumstances when he was shoved to his unwilling new caretakers at Privet Drive, a blessing no one ever really much appreciated. It also for years made him somewhat troublesome pray of Dudley Dursley who was often confused by Harry's rebuttals and did not like it very much.

That, in and of itself is not much of a Thing, as Things go. Many kids of higher or lower intelligence can manage realism and witty-humour, so all in all Harry Potter was merely one witty orphan among many - albeit he never met the many others. The Thing, the Very Troubling Thing came along with the emergence of magic. Magic, after all, does not much follow logic - and logic is the close cousin of realism.

It is unspoken but well known fact among magicians, that magician can have one of two things. He can either be a Powerful Magician, or he can be a Clever Magician. As such, Logic and Magic - or Common Sense and Sixth Sense, however one wants to call them - cannot much function together. A wizard can have Great Deal of Magic and then little bit of the logical thinking, or one can have the Great Grasp of Logic - or Good Common Sense - and then somewhat meagre magical talents, but never both in great quantities.

Of course there are some magicians with equal amounts of magic and logic, but no one much thought of those averagely powerful wizards with averagely good sense who mostly kept to themselves and let the others do whatever they wanted, so they were rarely included in these basic, crude statistics.

Unknown by Harry Potter, who even on early stages of his life leaned to the side of the latter set of magicians, it was decided by great many other people that he would be a greatly powerful wizard. He was, after all, a hero, a world famous one, a conqueror of a dark lord, a vanquisher, a saviour - a chosen one of a secret Prophecy people didn't think about that much. It was basically his duty and lot in life to be great and powerful magician of awe striking abilities.

This decision was, in truth, mostly made by Albus Dumbledore - though it was widely and greatly agreed upon. The entire nation believed in it, of course, and plenty of propaganda supported it. However, believing into a thing rarely made it the truth - believing would not make the sun turn around or moon to wane into wrong direction, and believing would not turn a logical boy into a very magical one. For that, one needed something else, and the one that decided to rely on that something else - after getting few reports from Arabella Figg about the boy's scores and personality which did not reassure him much - was Albus Dumbledore.

He was in a very handy position to decide this. These sort of things are decided early on, in the first year of Hogwarts - sometimes even earlier. Certain potions could be taken, certain spells cast on the children to ensure a certain affinity - and in simplest and less magic and potion consuming ways certain training could be given and certain way of thinking could be taught that would ensure that the child would lean towards one rather than the other. And he, being the headmaster of Hogwarts, had the most excellent access, not to mention about castle full of house elves at his disposal.

Harry Potter, who was going for the way of logic, entered the world of magic without knowing that plans had already been made for him and the path that had chosen. This was, by no means, a bad thing. Overall, powerful wizards had things pretty well going for them, as in magic governed nation the people with most of it were the ones that made the rules. And having a great potential, with this decision made for him Harry was basically predicted to become the Minister of Magic one day and to lead the nation without needing to do much but take his potions (unknowingly, of course) and wait for a while.

However, that while would be waited for a long while indeed. Because Harry was a boy very _firmly_ set into Realism, Practicality and most of all Common Sense - backed up by good servings of Survival Instinct and Street Smarts, and other equally capitalised good character traits for a bullied skinny orphans.

As a boy of firm setting in common sense, Harry took a while to take into the potion carefully put into is pumpkin juice every morning - and occasionally into his tea, water, milk and other drinks when he got tired of the first. The effects, at first, were somewhat disheartening not that anyone actually noticed.

Recklessness and shocking bouts of utter lack of common sense. Urge to stick his nose into things which were none of his business, and run head long into the big spiky wall with steel spikes spelling out the word _trouble_. This, however, was not all that uncommon in powerful wizards and was observed with much approval, especially by Albus Dumbledore who saw greatly many parallels between himself at this age and Harry Potter, and encouraged the boy all the way.

However, there was a problem. Harry Potter, as a boy of realism and meagre magical talents, was conditioned into having meagre success - and lack of common sense did not do much to usurp habit born over years of practice. So, what resulted was a reckless boy immune to common sense with ever increasing magical ability and no inclination to do much about it, as he was by now adjusted to simply not have it.

This, as such, was somewhat disastrous, but in truth is only partially inconvenient. Albus Dumbledore and those watching were mostly certain that it would mellow out over time, the boy would discover his awe striking magical powers - perhaps by stroke of luck or through bout of vigorous training - and then it would be perfectly all right. Harry Potter himself went through good two years in school, relying on brave and brash brazen boldness and luck that thankfully covered him where logic no longer did.

The second Thing that came along was not as much a troubling thing or very bad thing - all in all it was more or less a very good thing in fact. It came along on Harry's third year without anyone but two wizards ever knowing a thing about it, but many reaping the rewards of it without ever actually knowing.

George and Fred Weasley were somewhat fond of Harry in a sort of distant-almost-brother-way, that made them both wary and concerned the boy and fully capable of poking fun at him when ever they got the chance. They, being fun loving pranksters with many fun inducing pranking methods at their disposal, knew an un-fun thing when they saw it, and at the start of his third year Harry was becoming a very un-fun thing indeed. In short, he was becoming a moody and surly teenager, with his lack of common sense soon to boost it all the way to moody, surly, broody, loud and possibly also to angsty teenager.

And those could suck the humour and fun out of life and even death quicker than Dementors could, well, do the same.

Discreetly, they began hitting Harry with cheering charms every time they got the chance.

From there it all swung back to the original thing, the start of the whole Mess. Because under the effects of the Very Troubling Thing - the potions that enhanced magic and disrupted logic - Harry still had his original, curse born affinity towards adjusting, that the potions had never much touched. Over the years this had helped him adjust into new sports, lethal situations, murderous teachers, flickering public opinion and so forth, and made him quite comfortable in his lot of life despite it having been chosen without his notice. Now, serving its purpose like it always did, it took two things, magic enhancing logic suppressing potions and cheering charms, and adjusted to them.

The result was somewhat messy, though no one much noticed this either. Harry became a reckless wizard with no common sense but very cheerful disposition, immense magical powers and not much an inclination to do much about them. This all came forth in burst of reckless actions and foolhardy decisions accompanied by laughing and inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times, but thankfully his magic tended to look after him so it was more or less alright.

He even became somewhat well liked for it and when in his fourth year he was accused of being a glory hound and other nasty things due to the Goblet of Fire spewing out his name, he met it all with uproarious laughter that, despite all the hostility aimed at him, was frankly rather infectious and saved him from ruined friendships and lot of heart ache. And angst, had he still been at all inclined towards it, which thanks to several cheering charms that never really dissipated, he wasn't.

This, all in all, was the setting that gave birth to the Mess, for one Harry Potter.

x

The Damnation, for one Voldemort, also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle by few of his most hated enemies and some of his allies that knew better than to ever say _either_ name out loud, begun much, much earlier. However, it did not begin with affinities or magical potions or many cheering charms - or even Horcruxes, as important as they are and as much as they do serve a role in the whole story.

It begun, simply and purely, with a translation error some seven centuries before his birth, when a alchemist translated old text of a necromancer from a dead language into a living one through another dead language with less than basic grasp of any of the languages. He did overall great job with it, miraculously good in fact considering the odds against him, and only did one major mistake, and translated the word _homely_ into _familiar_.

Actually the translation error was much severe than that, and the original word in fact followed along the lines of "house hold and all those part in it and it's intricate design and function" and the word that replaced it was more of the disposition of "a familiarity of a house hold and all that is part of it in it's intricate design and function." But more of that later.

The first Thing for Voldemort that he personally knew of, which in his mind was not a bad thing at all but a very good and powerful thing, was the discovery of Horcruxes. Unlike Harry Potter, Voldemort did most of his life-changing decisions by himself and for himself, and Horcrux was a major one. Of course, others could disagree with the wisdom of it, but it was the most reliable manner of reaching immortality and, most of all, power. So he grasped it with both hands and hooked his legs around it for good measure.

Voldemort, coincidentally, was also originally a very logical wizard with meagre magical talents - however, his brand of logic was more directed into harnessing what talent he had, which made him seem very powerful at early age whilst in truth he was very skilful. He hid his lack of power well in displays of talent, and coveted the greater amounts of magic other wizards had, not knowing originally of the flipside of things. A Horcrux was one of the things he could reach a greater power, he thought, which only intensified his need to have one, and then another when the mentally deteriorating effects struck him. And few more afterwards.

The second thing, or perhaps this was in fact the first thing - or the second thing if one counted the translation error as the first - was what Albus Dumbledore did for him. This happened in long series on inconsequential incidents that piled up into a bad habit that lasted better part of ten years and caused nothing good.

At this point one should make note that intelligence and logic should not be mistaken for one another. Intelligence is a whole different thing than common sense - the stupidest of men could have a common sense not to touch fire while the wisest of them all just might go ahead and put his hand to it to experiment the heat, his own endurance and how long it would take his skin to blister and burn and deteriorate.

Albus Dumbledore was without doubt a very powerful and a very intelligent wizard, but he had much lost his common sense over the years as his power had piled up. For him this process had been natural, spanning over half a century, so he had never truly noticed it and when he had, he had dismissed its importance, thinking that such a logical transformation would make him immune the less beneficial effects of having more magic. In this he was sorely mistaken, and never noticed it because thorough the years as his magic grew and logic waned, he kept the belief that he still had a very good and reliable common sense whilst in truth he had started losing it a while ago.

So to him it was perfectly natural to do the things he did. Such as frightening eleven year old child by burning his closet of gathered treasures right in front of him. Maintaining suspicious air and giving many thoughtful looks for this child over the following years, with eyes narrowed and mouth set into a thin line. Asking him questions about his goings and doings that truly were none of his business but which he felt he really ought to know. As a teacher Albus Dumbledore had always been a fair one generally, but he was quick to set to his ways and once he set to his ways of thinking that Tom Riddle ought to be watched for carefully, that was exactly what it did.

Now, this had a very novel response in the boy in question, who learned to lie and cheat and keep perfectly straight face, even a small smile, whilst doing so. Which of course only cemented Dumbledore's mistrust which in counter reaction made the boy even better at acting - and from here a delicate ballet of lies, suspicion and poorly hidden animosity was born on the boy's very first year in Hogwarts.

The boy's talent with lying and charming the teacher's into believing him at every turn was what eventually resulted in him getting a followers - as well as the fact that the talent wasn't only usable on teachers. Keeping this in mind, one could almost blame Dumbledore for giving the boy the major tool of his trade, but in truth he could never claim all of that credit due to the boy's quick and clever wit and eagerness to be a somebody. Horace Slughorn, who approved the boy heartily and encouraged him in every turn, could also claim a small part of the credit.

This all tied very closely to the thing with the Horcruxes. Due to being threatened with magic from the beginning and having Dumbledore be so suspicious of him at every turn, Tom Riddle knew very well the limits of his magical ability and dearly wanted more, and so he got it by any and all means necessary. This need one could say was the basis of his loss of logic, as with the first Horcrux it started to quickly wane and by the second it was half of what it used to be. By third, there was no sight of it, but not one really noticed as by then he was a great and powerful wizard with followers and dark mark of his own and kingdom to take over.

Fast forwarding into the future via many bad decisions and even more horrible events and incidents, and we get to Harry Potter's starting point. This, for Voldemort, wasn't truly much of a _thing_ as much as it was a _pretty fucking fucked up turn of events_. Having his own Killing Curse turn in on him was not something the dark lord was prepared for so it caught him wholly off guard, but not truly unprotected, so it was inconvenient, but not the end of it, or even the beginning of it as he merely hid himself to wait for a chance to claim power - and hopefully also a body - once more.

The thing, the final thing for him and the first thing of his Damnation, was the translation error. He encountered old text of long lost arts of necromancy - a copy of a copy of a copy that had kept most of it's original content, as well as the original translation error.

What the original text said was that by using the material of one's family, of one's enemy and of one's loyal servant, one could remake a body once the previous one had been lost - though it said it in different language, with more words and in that annoying way that old texts do, circling around the point endlessly. What it _read_, however, was the material of one's family, of one's enemy and of one's living possession, or a _pet_.

No one had used this ritual in centuries, if ever, so no one knew about the error in it's wording, and neither did Voldemort who took it to heart and prepared. He chose a suitable snake with a pleasantly obedient disposition and inclination to eating people and named her Nagini. However, as he was ever the one to tweak things to his advantage, he didn't smother the urge to tweak her a little, so with the aid of magic she grew from a viper into the size of a python.

As snakes went, she was very useful one as her venom made him stay strong and so forth, but her purpose was from the beginning to be sacrificed for him to get a new body, without him ever knowing that the ritual and the potion was meant to only take parts of humans.

Like so, the setting of the Damnation was very much ready for his part.

x

The Mess, the Damnation, whatever one wanted to call it, started to tick, so to speak, with the third task in series of tasks that when compiled together formed the Triwizard Tournament. The task was a maze, to which three champions and the rather amused Extra, as Harry potter considered himself in this read through, were meant to traverse to find a trophy. Whoever got the trophy first won. It was straightforward enough.

Though it made the whole thing bit of a moot point in the end - with the points being the moot point. Thorough the tournament they had been scored and evaluated, first for how they faced a dragon and then how well they swam in a lake that tried to kill them. One who got the highest amount of points together got to go to the maze first - which, in the end, made little difference because the one with the least points could still get the cup first, and won. Thus, the whole concept of panel of judges and set of three tasks was rather useless, only determining one's advantage over others in the final task, or lack there off. The same could've been accomplished with rock-paper-scissors with probably pretty much the same result.

But Harry had these days the habit of over simplifying things which aren't simple at all. He didn't know it, but it was mostly due to abuse of cheering charms, making him unwilling to bother with the more complicated stuff. All in all, it was rather strange opinion coming from him, as he just happened to be one of the two people in lead of the tournament, and the first to go into the maze filled with dangers and fairly certain doom.

"Off you go then," said a cheerful announcer, announcing them to the crowd of people eagerly waiting to see them get severely hurt, and blew into a whistle. Harry glanced around, grinned, and jogged into the maze - which was rather like pretty accurate description of his current philosophy towards life.

Now, what happened in the maze mostly stayed in the maze, because no one was much interested about that. There was a sphinx that was secretly rather peeved about being brought in to such cold place though she didn't much mind getting to actually riddle people - it had been a while. Then there was some very disoriented spiders, trying to find their back to the forest and back home, along with some over fed Blast-End-Skrewts. Some other horrors had been hidden along the maze as well, traps and such, but they weren't particularly memorable.

What was, was the cup. The trophy, that unknown by all had been turned into a Portkey, and was the metaphorical toll of the bell of the Mess and the Damnation. Harry, cheerful and thinking it all more or less like a horrible twisted but nonetheless rather amusing joke, suggested that he and Hogwarts another unfortunate champion would take it together.

"We can share the prize," he offered. "It'll be a laugh."

"Yeah, okay," Cedrid agreed after moment of consideration, figuring that there'd be no changing the other's mind once he got the idea. That he had learned at the second task, where Harry thought it great deal of fun and had ended up getting the highest points because he had somehow accidentally started a whole new interspecies potions trade between wizards and merpeople, just because he had wanted to swim a little longer and had bribed the merpeople to find him more gillyweed.

They grasped the cup together.

The world spun. And stopped, as abruptly as it had begun.

What happened next, had four different eyewitness and thus according to their later accounting of the whole thing went in four different ways.

For Cedric it went something like this:

They landed in a grimy dark ground, and looking around he saw that it was rather like a cemetery. With a second look, he realised it was. Beside him, Harry was chuckling to himself, thoroughly amused and rather deranged sounding, and absently Cedric wondered if he had hit his head. It had probably happened when he had been a baby. Multiple times.

"Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" he asked, frowning, and Harry laughed, shaking his head. He pointed at a grave of some bloke named Riddle, but Cedric did not much care, as he was a bit too unnerved by the sudden turn of events. Then he felt something impacting the side of his knee, he lost his balance, fell, hit his head and everything went dark. When he woke up, he was at Hogwarts with a man he didn't know, and thousand questions raining down on him.

For Harry it started rather like this:

He felt faintly apologetic about kicking Cedric the way he had - but it was the other's fault because he hadn't been paying attention. Tom Riddle's grave was very amusing, after all, if one knew to appreciate it, and it was a disappointment that Cedric, who usually had a decent sense of humour, didn't see it.

At this point it probably should be pointed out that the Weasley twins had renewed their cheering charms on him just this morning, and he was still riding it out. Also, it should be noted that Harry Potter has the luck of the devil - and of that bad penny you can never get rid off, the one with stains that smells odd. By kicking Cedric and knocking him out, he had accidentally saved his life.

The next thing Harry knew, he was bound up and dragged forward, towards a cauldron not far away with a potion sizzling inside it. This, he thought, was not particularly amusing but he could do little about it and instead watched the proceedings in a sort of displeased dis-amusement, waiting for the punch line.

Then he realised the man dragging him was Peter Pettigrew. And promptly started laughing again, mostly at himself, as he realised the sudden irony of it all. Just year before, he had let his murderous godfather and equally murderous teacher let the man live, because he had thought the man was a bit of a joke. Living as a rat for twelve years - it didn't get more amusingly pathetic than that unless it really tried. It had been amusing back then too, when Pettigrew had ran away, but now it seemed even more hilarious.

Then the man gagged him, and Harry couldn't laugh anymore. It was rather unpleasant, really.

Being knifed was even less pleasant and he frowned furiously at the man. Knifes just sucked the fun out of everything.

Then there was a snake, slithering across the ground, a cold voice telling Pettigrew to get on with it and the potion bubbling. A bone went into the potion, then bit of Harry's blood, and finally the snake slithered in, making it steam and sizzle violently. Then Pettigrew dropped baby Voldemort in and what followed was the most un-amusing sight ever - which ended up, very soon, being the highlight of Harry's entire life. Voldemort rising from a cauldron, more snake, than a man.

For Pettigrew, it was fairly unpleasant.

He had been toiling on the potion all day, getting ingredients thrown in, stirring, stirring, endlessly stirring. He had never been much good at potions, which made it especially unpleasant - as his Lord had to be watching behind his shoulder his every move to make sure he got it all right. It was rather like having Horace Slughorn combined with Dumbledore, Snape and all the horrible things in the world, condescended into mutated mutilated baby, named abomination. Though saying that Voldemort was looking over his shoulder was probably a bit more accurately put.

The potion, however, seemed to go well, and his lord was generally satisfied. When the time came, everything was more or less ready. Pettigrew bound Harry, took his blood, threw the ingredients in, watched until Nagini was completely dissolved in the potion, the poor beast, and then dropped his lord in as well, partially fantasising of the possibility that he would boil to death or drown and Pettigrew himself could run away somewhere to live a pleasant unassuming life of a sewer rat.

He had never been the sort of man who got what he wished for. However, he felt it was bit stretching on the part of his fairly poor luck, that his lord should rise out of the cauldron not as the man he had once been - not even as the monster he _was_ - or some other manner he had imagined. In his mind he had seen a pale man with maybe bald head and no nose, humanoid in figure but not all humane. What he got, however, was nothing like that.

It was, instead, a half man and half snake, with red eyes and pale, patterned skin and mostly humanoid face. However his lord did not as much _rise_ from the cauldron as he slithered out of it, sleek bodied and strong and with impossibly long serpent's tail in place of his legs, which should have never been able to fit into the cauldron.

Then his lord hissed. And hissed. He looked at his hands, ran then down his slightly patterned sides to where the pale, grey marked scales started, looked at first horrified and then a little fascinated. His shifted left, and right, slithered around the cauldron, coiled his body, ran his hand over his tail. Then he hissed again, looking at Pettigrew. And hissed once more.

Harry Potter laughed muffled into the gag, breathless and wide eyed, with tears of laughter running from his eyes. Voldemort hissed savagely at him, and then slithered over, to wrench the gag out of his mouth. He hissed and Harry Potter hissed back, while Pettigrew watched from side with fairly wide eyes and dawning comprehension. Something had gone wrong.

How it ended up with him, with _Pettigrew_ tied up and gagged, he wasn't sure, but after less than twenty minutes it did. With a cheerful smile and a wave, Harry Potter bound his hand together with the unconscious boys, and then levitated the Portkey to Peter's unwilling lap, sending him to Hogwarts while his Lord watched from the side, and didn't move a muscle to stop it.

For Voldemort, it went rather like so:

It felt like sweet blessed rebirth when the potion enveloped him, a pure newness and freedom he had almost forgotten in the long confinement of mutilated bodies that couldn't hold him for long, and existence as spectral mist that couldn't do much. Then he had a head once more, and eyes that could actually see properly. He had a fairly well working nose that was telling that Wormtail was in fire need of a bath, and then his hands distracted him from all of it.

The snake body was something he had not much expected, but one he found he didn't much mind. What a better body for Lord Voldemort, he thought, what a better body for the heir of Slytherin? It was long, it was strong, it was decisively serpentine, it was quite impressive, it would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, and it was fairly mobile. And he still had well working hands, which was what he had been aiming for.

"I do believe this will do," he mused, testing his hands, and running them down himself. He was quite cool, he noted, and hoped he wasn't cold-blooded now. "Wormtail, get me a robe."

Wormtail didn't answer, but Voldemort was too distracted with his scales - what fine scales they were - to notice. It would be hard, he mused, to fit in among Muggles, now, but then he had no need for that sort of things. It was certainly better than being something like a centaur. "Yes, this will do perfectly," he nodded to himself, and looked up again. "A robe, Wormtail." He demanded again, again to get no answer. "Didn't you hear me? I told you to get me a robe?"

The idiot merely stared at him in incomprehension. Voldemort snapped at him to do as he ordered, and he gave no answer. He snapped again, and once more got no reply. "Are you deaf?" he snarled.

And then Harry Potter started laughing. It was irritating, muffled sound, but there was a sense of deep understanding in it, that was also in the wide amused eyes, as the boy snorted against the gag. Voldemort ripped the cloth out of his mouth. "And what, pray tell, is so funny Harry?" he demanded to know. He had heard of the boy's mental state, but hadn't quite believed it until now.

"How do you do?" the boy asked, grinning widely like an idiot, not even trying to look like he was in the least scared. "Nice body. Quite serpentine. Suits you," he added, and laughed. "I think it might be missing something."

Missing something? Voldemort frowned, opened his mouth, and then stopped. He looked down to himself, to his new body. Oh. Well. "I am immortal. I have no need to procreate," he snapped.

The brat paused, stared at him for a moment, and then busted out into howls of laughter, tilting threateningly to his side and going breathless towards the end. Voldemort had uncontrollable urge to slap him for a moment, but instead shook him by the shoulder. "Stop that you infernal idiot!"

"Hee, hee, hee," the boy more gasped than laughed, staring at him with bright, tearful eyes, apparently too mirthful to even see straight. "Not quite what I meant but that works too!" he said, giggling.

"What did you mean then?" Voldemort demanded, shaking him again. "Speak, you brat!"

"Hissing!" the boy gasped from midst of his laughing. "You're hissing!"

Voldemort stopped and blinked. No he wasn't, he thought, and turned to his servant. "Wormtail, get me a robe," he demanded once more, much to the incomprehension of his already increasingly more useless servant. Silence followed, only broken by Potter's breathless laughter, and Voldemort scowled. This, he thought, was not part of his plan, not at all.

"Oh, oh, oh, this is rich," the brat, still bound up and helpless, laughed under his breath. "Dark Lord Hiss! Oh, Merlin, you're going to need a translator to run any empire except that made completely of snakes!" He broke out into full blown laughter again.

Voldemort frowned, rubbing his throat with dismay and realising how right the brat was. However, Parseltongue was one of the magical tongues that couldn't be either learned, taught or translated with magic - or even in any natural methods. Only ones that had it and could understand it, were the ones born with it, because one couldn't do it with normal human vocal chords. That made the likelihood of finding a translator rather small.

"Maybe I can relearn human language," he murmured, frowning. "Or maybe there is a potion… a medical procedure…"

"Good luck finding a person willing to do it for you!" Potter said, amused. "Can you imagine what they'd do if you slithered into St. Mungos?"

Voldemort could imagine it very well, though it was probably his muggle upbringing that added the scalpels to the mental image. He shuddered.

And then the idea that eventually came to be called the Mess and the Damnation, came to Harry Potter, at the sight of Voldemort shuddering.

Despite lacking anything resembling to common sense and being slightly around the bent, off his hinges and with his screws scattered all around kitchen and going down the drains, Harry Potter was not that stupid despite all popular beliefs. He was fairly fond of pretending, though, after having realised somewhere in mid second year that people were bipolar and that their opinions didn't matter worth hippogriff's dung. But he was not in fact stupid.

Even through his mirth and lack functional survival instincts, he knew this was a bad situation. There was a snake-Voldemort in front of him, growing more ticked off every seconf; there was a very confused Pettigrew, still holding a knife; and there was unconscious Cedric Diggory, blissfully unaware of anything. It was even more amusing that making a dragon fly headlong into the headmaster's tower, but not exactly safe, and it was only the matter of time before bad situation would turn into bad things happening. And despite his lack of proper appreciation of a good joke, Cedric didn't deserve to die - and he surely would if he would wake up and make a noise.

"Tell you what," Harry said, catching the Serpent Lord's attention. "I'll make a deal with you."

"Oh? And what sort of deal would that be?" Voldemort asked, mocking as he glanced down to the ropes binding Harry's hands and legs. "What could you possibly offer me in this situation that I would find in any way valuable."

"My services as a translator," Harry said cheerfully. "Think about it. You and I are probably the only two known Parselmouths in this whole wide world. Sure you could go off to a mad chase to find one in some distant village in brazil where they breed giant anaconda's as their version of horses or something, where the head shaman might have bit of a talent, but I am admittedly easier to find in a rush. And you are currently in bit of a rush, if you don't mind me saying it."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes before raising one hairless eyebrow at him. "True," he murmured slowly. "But I could just as well cast Imperio on you and be done with it - it would be much easier."

"Yes, well, if it would work on me. And it probably wouldn't," Harry said, shaking his head. "And sure you could threaten me, or force me or something, but you have to admit, it's much simpler just to have me work for you out of my free will."

"And you _would_?" Voldemort asked, disbelieving. He remembered very well how vehemently the boy had declined his offer in his first year at Hogwarts.

"Sure. You have no idea how much fun I'm having right now," the boy grinned and Voldemort though, no, he actually had a pretty good idea. Potter continued, "However, I'll do it on one condition."

"And what is that? To let you go unharmed?" Voldemort asked with a snort. "To not take over the world, to not kill anyone? To be _nice_?"

"No, I want him," Harry said, nodding towards Wormtail, who was watching them talk nervously. "You give me him, I'll send him back to Hogwarts, they capture him and hopefully question him, Sirius will be pardoned for his crimes…" he shrugged his shoulder. "Stuff like that. Seems like fair trade."

Voldemort scowled. "No, I don't think so," he said, straightening his back. "It would be in my best interest to keep my return as a secret for now, and to send Wormtail back would be a bit too much like leaving a calling card behind."

"Voldemort, my good man, you just snatched me up in front of whole student body of Hogwarts, plus their parents, plus shit ton of people from the Ministry, and some random dragon tamers and magical creatures and reporters," Harry said flatly. "I kind of doubt they'll miss it."

Voldemort considered this and frowned. "They might," he mused. In his experience, Wizarding world was very good at missing the obvious.

"Well, okay, sure, they might. But still," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders. "Think of the benefits. Sure, you'd lose Pettigrew - but seriously, do you even need him now that you got a body and all? It would be a laugh too, the ministry would go into disarray. Just think of it! They put the head of a noble pureblood family - practically a _blue_blood family - into prison without cause. The ministry will be a bit too busy with the scandal and all to mind you!"

"There's Dumbledore," Voldemort argued, folding his arms. "He wouldn't be so easily distracted."

"If course he wouldn't be - and he won't be," Harry laughed, shaking his head.. "Even if you manage to keep it a secret from the rest of the wizarding world, he's gonna be suspicious no matter what you do, that's what he _does_."

"True, true," the dark lord agreed.

"And just imagine it," Harry pushed on, grinning. "Me at your feet, maybe with a chain or something around my neck, at your peck and call. Just think of the gloating you could do! The faces of your servants - hell, Dumbledore's face when he finds out…" he grinned even wider.

Voldemort nodded absently. That would be fairly interesting thing to see, he mused. It was rather disturbing that it was the Boy-Who-Lived who was suggesting it, though. "What do you get out of this?" he asked, suspicious. "Aside from Wormtail and your godfather's pardon if I will bother to honour the terms."

"Are you kidding me?" the boy asked, laughing. "I get the front row seat to the show of the decade. And I get to play the best prank of the century," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Seems like fun, doesn't it?"

Voldemort eyed him a moment. The boy had certainly changed since their last meeting. "Hm… I suppose there could be benefits in this," he agreed. "But you know that I killed you parents, right? That I'm going to kill everyone you ever loved, take over your world, insert a reign of terror based on false racism and somewhat faulty pureblood agendas, and basically ruin the lives of everyone I will ever encounter?"

"Sounds about right," the boy nodded.

"And this doesn't bother you at all?"

"Sure it does. I'm just not going to let it bother me. Everyone dies, and if the world's going to hell in a hand basket, I want my share of the sandwiches," the boy said. "And if it's a dinner with a show, then what the hell. I'm going to go with a bang and nice pint of butterbeer."

"I have no idea what you just said," the dark lord said. "But I'm sure I agree. Your wand?"

"Fell somewhere over there," Harry nodded to the side, and after picking it up Voldemort banished his ropes. Under Wormtail's confused gaze, he handed it over to the Boy Who Lived, who petrified his minion, and then cheerfully bound the man up. After that, it was a simple process of sending the man and the unconscious Hogwarts student back to the school.

"Well then," the Boy Who Lived said, pocketing his wand while Voldemort mused that he had just lost his chance to call for his servants and gloat about his return. "Let's find that robe for you, shall we? Can't have a dark lord going around naked like that, now can we?" the boy said, and headed off whistling a merry tune as he went.

That, in short, was the beginning of the end that ended up being the end of a beginning, and confused the life out of everyone. Except maybe Harry Potter, but he was still so badly high that everything made perfect sense to him.

xx

"The boy and his x" as in "the boy and his monster" or "the boy and his owl" and "boy and his insert-special-pet-type-of-creature-here" or whatever. A bit lenghtier story idea this time. I have no explanation for this, I was just in a weird mood and it seemed like perfectly good idea at the time. This was written after my latest read through of Good Omens, so it was rather influenced by the style of that book. My apologies for grammar errors.

Also, all the story ideas laid out here are free for taking, so if you pick a plot you like, run with it and have fun. Just, don't copy and paste my text directly and I'm perfectly fine with it. Though, bit of credit is always appreciated.


	3. Green wings, Harry joins Voldemort

Warnings: Another Harry Joins Voldemort, Character deaths mentioned, sort of creature Harry

**Green Wings**

Voldemort was tired. The day had been long and fruitless, almost _pointless_ in way that made him feel like he had not achieved anything that day. It didn't help, thinking of the decisions that had been made and the problems that had been solved earlier, along the course of the last months. Many had indeed been solved, many major issues, many bad blockages. There were a few still left, but they were getting less and less troublesome with each day. The Ministry was his now, and no longer an issue but instead a resource to use. All there were left to oppose him was what remained of the Order of Phoenix and the neutrals, should they decide to oppose him and he knew they wouldn't.

He rubbed his pale hand over his face, running the tip of his middle finger down along the spot where his nose should've been. There was still Potter, he knew of course, but he no longer worried. Not with the amount of people he had after the Boy Who Lived, not with the bounty on his head - not with entire nation eager to get into Voldemort's good graces by delivering his nemesis to him. At this point he figured that even Potter's classmates would hand him over if they could, just for the recognition if not for the money. It was only the matter of time.

Voldemort paused, and then sighed. His war was already won, he knew. United Kingdom rested in the palm of his hand, now. But it was only the beginning of it. His followers didn't see it, not yet. They were too short-sighted, thinking that the isle nation was all that they'd needed. Some of them even had suggested that he'd close the borders and make the nation completely self-sufficient. Fools. If he did that, the nation would choke up and wither, and probably die within few decades, if not sooner. No, UK was no where near enough.

The work begun here, and it would be hard and long journey ahead of him - and this first year, and the one that followed it, were most important in regards of what was to follow. He would need to truly make his stance, root himself into the Ministry, make himself and his reign permanent - and then he needed to make things _better_ to show that his conquest was not a hostile takeover of a Dark Lord, but an improvement, a rebellion against a flawed government. This, he knew, would be nearly impossible, because his position was still a delicate one. Mostly because of his followers and the ethics he had adopted early on, years and years ago.

He had known then that later on it would make things difficult, choosing the pureblood agenda. But it had been beneficial at the time. With it he got the powerful backing he needed, the money - and purebloods had been easy to persuade because their opinions, their beliefs and their prejudice. They had been eager to band up under his mark, something no one else would've been willing to do as willingly for any reason. And the money and the political power they had brought had been essential. Without it, he would've never gained power.

But now… he frowned to himself, as he walked across his sitting room and towards the bathroom. Now all he had said he stood for… stood in his way. And it was like a snowball he had kicked down the mountain and couldn't quite stop. He was locked in the lies he had spun in the beginning. The Pureblood Agenda… for as long as his name and his power stood on that base, there was a risk that they would eventually wobble and fall. Britain had been easy to take with that - Britain was old and stuck in it's habits. Rest of the world, however, was moving on. Most already had. He would not be able to take any other country with the old Agenda.

It needed to chance, if he ever could hold any hope of taking Europe. And yet, he couldn't change it without losing the support of his followers. He could, he knew, command the nation with fear - he _was_ commanding it with fear - but fear was only a momentary motivator, and could only get him so far. What he needed was respect - and he could not get that in the eyes of the other nations by continuing as he had.

He entered the bathroom, and washed his face and hands, glancing the mirror only momentarily and then looking away. He needed to do something about his appearance, he knew. A demon's face would not lead him to the future he aimed for. Potions, perhaps glamours if potions wouldn't work, would be needed… to make him more human.

But there was still time. He needed to sort out Britain first. He would use this year to end all opposition and strengthen his power, make Britain completely and permanently his. For now he would breathe to the embers of the prejudice and support it. Muggeborns would be gathered and locked up. But not killed, no, only locked up - and they would not even be mistreated. They were a resource he'd need, later.

In years time, perhaps, he would start changing things. Slowly, he would start changing opinions, start spreading new beliefs and truths - he would use the neutrals and the light side, whatever would be left of them. They would relish the allowances he would give, and the freedom they would gain, they would be grateful, and still sneaky enough to try and fight against him. They would try and use the knowledge against him, and end up only aiding his cause. Coming from them the truth would mean more, not for the purebloods maybe, but for the light side, the neutrals, the greys that hid in the shadows and said nothing.

They would slowly start the idea of muggleborns being the Gift of Magic Voldemort knew they were, the new blood meant to breath new life into old lines. He knew, better than probably anyone else, how much powerful an old pureblood family could become with new blood - even muggle blood could do it. He was himself, after all, more powerful than his mother, his grandfather and probably several more generations back from him, all put together, just because his father was a muggle… Once people would see it, and accept it, and see that _he_ stood for it, he would be able to turn his gaze towards rest of Europe.

It was strange, he mused as he stepped out of the bathroom, how clear it seemed now. It hadn't been like that just few months ago.

It hadn't seemed so tiring then either.

Shaking his head, he turned to head to his bedroom, thinking of blood and lines and the power of magic. Things were changing, he could feel it, had been feeling for a while now. And the changes were important. Britain's state was bad, he knew now, extremely bad, had been for years and years Hogwarts had ruined potential magicians for better part of a century now with incompetent teaching and endless budged cuts that had taken several key subjects off the school curriculum. The Ministry had been choking the whole nation with insipid laws and regulations that had restrained magicians and ruined magical creatures, stripping them of their power. More than that, the Ministry had ruined the country by what it had not done, the changes it had not made, the steps it had not taken.

Britain was bad, worse than any other country in the world, when it came to magic. But very few countries could be called _good_. France was better, but not by much. Germany followed the same lines, as did Spain, Italy, Poland… most of Europe, in fact. United States was doing good - Japan had had it for a while, but they were loosing their touch. China flourished because of sheer numbers, but that was about all they had, really. Everywhere, magic was growing old. It was being choked up.

Mostly by the Secrecy Act. The thing that had saved them and made them so strong two hundred years ago, three hundred… was now killing them.

Voldemort entered his bedroom, and paused suddenly as he sensed a presence. Old reflex worked before his mind did, and his wand was in his hand and a spell had flashed forward, aimed with deadly accuracy towards the interloper. There was a flash of red that lit the room for a moment, shining menacing light on Harry Potter's face and making his green eyes gleam - and then the spell vanished as it hit the young man, and the room returned to darkness.

Voldemort blinked, slow, his hand steady and wand still aimed at the other. He was certain his aim had been perfect. But he was also certain that he had not hit anything. And more than that, he was certain that Harry Potter could _not_ be in his bedroom. His mansion was sealed and warded so tightly, that no one but him could enter it. Even his death eaters weren't allowed. They didn't even know he had a mansion. No one did.

Soft voice said, "Lumos," and the room was lit up again by light that bounced off the walls and lit everything equally, but seemed to have no source. Voldemort stared in silent disbelief at the young man, casually lying in the middle of his bed, wearing black muggle trousers, and long sleeved black shirt. He had no wand, no weapon, not even shoes or socks and he looked oddly vulnerable as he lay there, on top of the dark duvet. His expression, however, made Voldemort immediately vary. It was calm. Too calm.

Perhaps this was a dream, Voldemort thought absently. It could be that he had fallen asleep in his study. It wouldn't be the first time. And it wouldn't be the first time he'd have dreamed of Potter. It happened fairly frequently now, thanks to their odd connection. He had almost learned to ignore it in the last few months, despite the unease it gave him. Almost.

"Hello," the young man said, his eyes seeming to shimmer in the now lit room. He smiled; an oddly neutral expression. "I've been waiting for you. I hope you don't mind that I invited myself in." He made no move to even sit down, and just laid there, one leg crooked, hands resting lazily at his side.

"You… can't be here," Voldemort said, slowly, now more convinced that he was asleep. It simply did not make sense, so it had to be a dream. "It's not possible."

"Hm," Harry Potter said, still smiling. "In truth, it wasn't hard at all. It would be hard for anyone else, sure, but we share a connection that makes it unfortunately very easy for me to find you."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "No," he said. "The connection does not work that way." He could use it to get the approximate location of potter when ever the boy let down his guard, but only by gleaning the other's surface thoughts, and even then it was blurry and the pain made it difficult to make any use of. There was no way Potter could find him with the connection, not here, not with all his Occlumency walls up. "You couldn't have come through the wards. They're keyed to me," he added for good measure, because it was true.

"And we share blood and magic - or we did anyway. I could've walked here and they wouldn't have made as much a beep. As far as this place is concerned, you and I were exactly the same," the young wizard said, calm and reasonable. "And I didn't need to go through the wards in any case. For them, there's no one here but you."

"What do you mean?" the dark lord asked, his wand still aimed at the other.

"Do you want the short and simple or the long and complicated explanation?" Potter asked, and let out an oddly mirthless snort when Voldemort just glared. "Well, the short of it is that I'm dead."

That… was not what Voldemort had expected. Though in truth, he hadn't expected anything, but that most certainly had not been what he would've expected had he had the time to actually think it through. "What?" he asked, in incredulous mocking tone. "Don't be absurd," he said. He would've known if Potter had died. He would've felt it.

"I suppose saying that I'm dead is a bit misleading. But I'm not alive, anyhow, so it fits," the young wizard said, and glanced down to Voldemort's wand. "You might as well go and lower that. It won't make any difference for you and me. I'm not here to fight you. And you can't kill me."

The dark lord considered this, and kept his wand up. "Explain," he demanded, still mostly certain that it was a dream, but suspicious nonetheless. "What do you mean by not being alive?"

"Alive is a physical state," Potter said, and shrugged his shoulders. "It's when have a body, your heart beats and your blood flows, your intestines break down food into fuel for your body and your muscles burn it as they work. That sort of thing, organ functions, chemical reactions, bowel movements." It was all said very matter-of-factly, and he didn't sound much like the Potter Voldemort knew as he said it. The voice was familiar, but the mode of speaking and the tone of voice weren't.

"I have none of them. This," the young wizard waved his hand over his form. "This isn't actually a body. It looks like one sure, but that's about it. It's no more real than a shadow or a mirror reflection - it's just a trick of light, mostly. Memory of what I looked like." He shifted a little and pointed next to him. "This happens if you try to hit it," he added, pointing at the hole in the bedding, where Voldemort's spell had hit after it had gone right through him.

It sounded fantastically stupid and wholly unbelievable, but despite Voldemort frowned and then ran a quick diagnostic charm over the younger wizard. He blinked, and ran it again. The charm picked up nothing living, only magic. According to it, there was only aura there, a solid, powerful wizard's aura - Potter's aura, that he could tell, as the magic was by now as familiar to him as his own. But there was no body. The aura wasn't dead, or that of a ghost, but there was no body attached to it, like there ought to be. What was before him was magic of a wizard, without the wizard.

"Some sort of astral projection?" Voldemort asked, oddly curious. He had heard of them, but hadn't ever met a person able to produce one. The idea that Potter had managed it …

"I suppose I could make one if I wanted to, but it's all me here, not a projection," Potter shook his head, and then sat up, letting his bent leg fall against the duvet, leaning back to his stretched hands. He looked thin and oddly lanky, with collar bones showing from beneath the neckline of the black shirt, ankles and wrists bare and pale. It was like he had gone through a recent growth spurt. Probably had, too. "I have no body anymore. This is all I am now. There's nothing more than this," the young man said.

"That's not possible," Voldemort said, but no longer with outright disbelief. Potter sounded so certain, so confident of what he was speaking of. And the diagnostic charm hadn't failed him so far. Potter was truly there only in magic, and it was without doubt one of the most interesting effects Voldemort had seen in a long while.

"No, just not very likely," Potter answered, smiling a little wider now. "Come on, sit down, let me tell you what happened. It's sort of interesting, when you think about it," he said, and after Voldemort had hesitatingly sat on the edge of the bed, he nodded with satisfaction, and continued. "You've heard of my friend, Hermione, right?"

"Brilliant muggleborn, best of her generation," Voldemort nodded, frowning. Usually the best of their generations tended to be muggleborns or halfbloods. Purebloods no longer had the magical strength or brilliance for it. Too much inbreeding and stagnation, too many patters and habits, limiting them and their imaginations.

"That's the one. She's brilliant, like you said, but more than that she's the best researcher you could ever meet," Potter said. "She's probably the reason why I've survived this long. She found the magic and the spells, and I learned them, without her, I would've never learned half as much."

"I'll be sure to congratulate her the next time I meet her," Voldemort said, flat.

"You won't," Potter said, now with slightly wistful smile. "She's dead. Ron too," he said, and shook his head at the dark lord's surprised expression. "They both died four months ago. Magical backslash of a ritual she found, one we spent good half a month preparing for. It was supposed to help me get stronger and better faster, you know, so that I could face you on even ground," he added, rather frankly. "You have good fifty years of experience and magic on me, after all, so we figured that even after we got rid of your Horcruxes, I'd still probably just get myself killed, facing you."

"My Horcruxes. You know about my Horcruxes?" Voldemort ask, the shock and sudden fear making his voice quiet and very soft. "Oh yeah. Dumbledore taught me, and he knew about them for years," Potter said, and shook his head. "He destroyed the Ring, and I got the Diary. But it's not really important - you still have four left, safe and sound, so never mind that. Though you might want to get the locket from Delores Umbridge, before she figures out what it is," he added, frowning.

Voldemort scowled. "What?"

"Ah, right, you don't know. Sorry. See, Regulus Black got the locket out of the cave after learning what happened from Kreacher, the house elf you had drinking the potion for you, and he hid it in the Grimmauld place when he couldn't destroy it. Mundungus Flecher stole it about half a year ago. Umbridge confiscated it from him, and now she's wearing it around her neck, saying it's a heirloom or something like that," Potter said, all spoken calmly and reasonably, like it wasn't a _Horcrux_ he was speaking about. "The Cup is still in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault, and the Diadem is still at Hogwarts - and Nagini is where-ever she is, so you're still secured."

Voldemort swallowed, and made a mental note to kill Delores Umbridge the next time he met her. "How do you know about them?" he asked. "How do you know their locations?"

"From you," Potter said with a smile, shaking his head. "And from me. And from the Horcrux between us," he added, pointing at his forehead. "That one's gone, by the way, but I suppose it doesn't matter since I doubt you even knew it existed."

Voldemort grunted. He was getting a headache. "You had my Horcrux in your forehead?" he asked, and felt ill. It wasn't a nice thought. "I suppose that explains the connection, and the visions."

"More or less yes," Potter agreed. "But never mind that, that's not why I'm here and that doesn't matter for either of us anymore," he said, and shifted into cross-legged position, leaning his elbows to his thighs. "I want to tell you about the ritual instead. It was a pretty good one. Hermione found it from some old oriental book and spent some week translating it - it was supposed to make me one with my magic, to make me… open up to the magic of the nature," he said, making a waving motion with his hand. "She reckoned it would empower me - and since it came from cast of magical monks originally, she figured it would be alright, that it would be a light ritual."

Voldemort looked at him. "Something tells me it didn't go as it was supposed to," he murmured.

"Oh, it went exactly as it was supposed to. Just not the way we planned," Potter said. "It was an Ascension ritual of magical brand of magical Buddhist monks. By using it one becomes one with magic, like we thought. But the thing is, the person becomes one with magic to the point where the body dissolves _into_ magic and they, well, stop being human. Which is exactly what happened."

The dark lord blinked, took the younger wizard in, and felt sudden, horrible sinking feeling. He had heard of the Ascension rituals, but had avoided them carefully. They could go horribly wrong - the subjects could dissolve into magic and stop being people, stop being _spirits_, completely dissolve their very souls into magic until they were mindless, thoughtless energy in the ocean that was magic. The rituals worked very rarely like it was supposed to, if worked at all. The ones who ever dared to try them were the ones who didn't mind losing their lives and their magic and their very souls.

The fact that Potter had succeeded was incredible - and absolutely terrifying. If Voldemort understood it right, Potter was entity of pure magic now. Immortal and impossibly powerful.

"I… can't believe you succeeded," he murmured, finally, not able to say anything else.

"We didn't," Potter shook his head. "The ritual lashed out, killed Hermione and Ron. I dissolved into magic," he scowled, glancing down to himself. "Now I have more in common with ghosts and poltergeists and Boggarts than with you or any other magician alive."

"And you're not as much alive as you just _are_," Voldemort mused, looking down to him as well. For a mock body, it was not badly made.

"And I'm that only because of you," Potter said, looking up. "The only reason I didn't completely dissolve and lose my coherency and sentience, is because you. Because you have my blood in your veins." He shook his head, looking sad in oddly detached way. "Right now you are my Horcrux. That kept me whole enough to pull the rest of my mind and magic into single cluster, and eventually become myself, in a way."

Voldemort swallowed, as the realisation dawned to him. "Incredible," he said, breathless, fascinated and horrified at the same time. Then he realised something else. This mean Potter couldn't kill him. If he did, he would dissolve into nothing. The dark lord begun to smile, unguarded and surprised and little relieved.

"I see you realised the gist of it," Potter said, looking flatly amused now. "You won't be so happy once you realise what this _really _means for you. You still have no idea why I'm here."

"To call a truce?" Voldemort asked.

"We don't _need_ a truce," the younger wizard said, shaking his head. "We can't fight anymore. I can't be killed - I'm not physical enough to be killed. And I can't kill you unless I want to die, and at this moment I don't. I doubt I ever will, after what I've learned in the past few months," he smiled lopsidedly. "Why I am here is because I can't keep on working in secret anymore, and if I keep without secrecy, you will notice and start fighting me and that will be awkward. And I would like to try and see if I can become physical, and that takes lot of time and training and I'd need to be closer to you for it."

"Working?" the dark lord asked, and frowned. "What have you been doing?" What could've he been doing, being the way he was? Just about anything, really, being no longer limited by what limited physical, living wizards.

"Mostly… I've been doing you some small favours," Potter said, and smiled. "When I dissolved and then started pulling myself together, I realised the true extend of our link and how it really works. For me, it was easy to follow it back to you - actually, it was easier to do that than to do anything else, must easier than to try and become physical in any case. The link is only magic after all, and thus it's just like a wide open road for me. And I took it, and I saw your mind."

"You used Legilimency on me?" Voldemort asked, low and dangerous and little scared. He hadn't felt a thing. When had it been, months ago? And he hadn't known, hadn't guessed. The things Potter could've done with that knowledge…

"No need to be worried - it wasn't really as much Legilimency as it was a… visit. Your mind was rather hospitable too, it showed me a room or your psyche." the young man chuckled, shaking his head. "The manifestation of your memories and thoughts and ideals and everything else that makes you, you. It was an interesting place to be, I didn't know humans could have something like that."

"It's the Occlumens Lair, that's how Occlumens rearranges their thoughts and memories, by a imagined storage room for them and then shelving them or locking them away," Voldemort said, frowning. Wasn't Potter supposed to know it? "Weren't you taught Occlumency by Snape?"

"No, not really. It doesn't matter," the young man said, shaking his head. "Aren't you curious about what I did in your mind?"

"You did nothing. I would've noticed if changes had occurred," Voldemort said, scowling. "I am a too talented Occlumens to not notice any negative effects or changes."

"Ah, that explains it, I guess. I wondered why you didn't feel it," Potter said, amused. "I did changes, you know. I transformed the whole place. The thing is, all the negative changes had been done to it already, the place was ruined, so whatever I did was an improvement."

"What?"

"Your mind was in shambles when I got there. It was a beautiful place once, a jewel gallery I guess? It was completely trashed. There were few stones on pedestal and aquariums and such, carefully taken care of. The rest were on the floors, shattered, their shelves completely broken up, tables splintered from the middle, split in two. Honestly it looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the place," Potter chuckled. "I didn't know exactly where I was - I thought it was my own mind at first - so I started fixing it up."

Voldemort stared, mouth open and shocked. "What did you _do_?" he demanded to know.

"I put the tables and shelves and cabinets back together and started fixing the stones. It wasn't hard, actually, all I had to do was to fit the pieces together and they fixed themselves up, more or less. I'm not done yet with the place, only half through, but you should've felt the effects by now," the younger man said, smiling.

"I haven't," Voldemort said, and then frowned. Had he? If his mind had been broken up like that, he doubted he would've sensed someone fixing it. And yet…

"Think about it," Potter smiled. "Your actions in last, say, two months, in comparison to what you did half a year ago - or year ago, or longer! What you have planned _now_ versus what you had planned then. Your mind should be working better now. Your thoughts should be clearer - I already fixed most of your emotion stones."

Voldemort opened his mouth, and then closed it with a resounding snap. Potter was _right_, he realised with a shock. What had he have planned, half a year ago? The conquer of Britain was finished, all he had cared for was hoarding power and killing the rest of the opposition. The muggleborns, most of the neutrals, the Order of Phoenix, whoever else thought to rebel. Hunting down Potter had been most pressing concern he had had.

Now… now he was planning changes of his government, the upheaval of the whole British belief system - and eventual conquest of Europe, something that had never come to his mind before.

No, not never, he realised. No. It had been the plan in the beginning, he could remember it now. When he had been younger and his mind had been more open, he had planned it hard and meticulously, the eventual takeover of the whole world, he had had everything roughly sketched out. Then, somewhere, he had forgotten all about it. He had concentrated onto Britain and Britain alone. There had been nothing else for him, after.

"While making the Horcruxes, your ensured your own survival and immortality - and insanity, in one go," Potter said without much sympathy. "You took the sledgehammer to your own mind, and each time you slipped further away until you didn't even care. You begun to trust yourself implicitly, your confidence in your power grew to the point where you no longer questioned yourself and your actions. Your word became, to your more than to anyone else, the law. You didn't even think of checking your Lair, as you called it, because you thought yourself too powerful in Occlumency for anything to be wrong."

Voldemort ran his hand over his face, shivering. It was true. He could see it now, he could feel it. Some months ago, he hadn't care about any of it, he hadn't worried about politics of beliefs, or plans. He hadn't thought of muggleborns as _resource_, nor his own appearance as something he could use, or that could work to his disadvantage. He hadn't _cared_ about _anything_, not even things that could be his downfall. All there had been, was power, and getting more of it as fast as possible.

"Why?" he asked, shaking slightly. "Why did you do it?"

"Because I know that you could do lot of good - because I can feel it in magic, the stagnation. Unknown by this world, magic is slowly, unnoticeably, dying," Potter said, shrugging his shoulders. "Muggles have spread far and wide and wizards are so scared of being noticed now, that they dare not go out and see, don't dare to do anything. They bow over their cauldrons and clung to their traditions, and grow old too fast. In fifty years, in hundred, two hundred… without you, without some drastic methods, magic will start waning."

"But… my agenda, the pureblood agenda," Voldemort said, frowning. "I would've ruined everything. I would've speeded the end. If you hadn't - you couldn't have known."

"Yes, I could," Potter said, smiling at him. "I know you, now. Probably better than you know yourself. I know what you intended. And no one else could do it, you know it yourself. Ministries, governments, councils… even heroes. They could not do even nearly as much, as a dictator could. One man can change the world because one man has only one goal. One government however can only bicker about which way to change it and in the end do nothing worthwhile."

Voldemort stared at him with disbelief and the young man shrugged his shoulders, saying, "You got lost in the way, but the power and the pull and the _charm_ is still there. All one needs is to get you back to your original tracks. And I think I have," he smiled. "Ands now the power that is Lord Voldemort is aimed to a more worthy goal - one that I can agree with."

"And…" Voldemort frowned. "But I killed your parents," he said slowly. "I've ruined your life. Why would you bother, after all that?"

"I have no life anymore. I'm not living. I'm not even Harry Potter, not the way I was," the young man chuckled. "I don't think the same way, I don't have to, because things that were threat to me before aren't anymore. Besides, they're all in afterlife now, it's not like they are _gone_. They just live in a different plane of existence, nothing more."

The dark lord let out a shaky sigh. The way Potter said it made it sound like he was speaking of different house or room, like he could pop in for a visit… Voldemort decided very firmly not to ask if he actually could. "What do you want, then?" he asked, frowning. "What do you want me to do?"

The young man smiled. "Let me do what I want," he said, simply. "Your mind is only half fixed - the major things are still in shatters. I want to fix them, as well, I want to return your mind to the state it was, before. Also, if you don't mind, I'd like to stick around for a while." He lifted his hands, and looked at his fingers, which were starting to be translucent. "I need to learn how to make myself a physical body, and that will take time. Right now it takes concentration to be even like this, and I can fade away any moment."

"And you want to do that _here_?" the dark lord asked with disbelief.

"It's easiest being close to you," the young man said, shrugging. "I can feel your physicality, your _solidity_, very clearly because you have my blood in your veins. You, for me, are the closest thing to my own body, so I too feel a bit more solid around you. And I need that, if I want to learn how to do it myself."

"I see," Voldemort murmured, frowning, thinking about it seriously. He found, to his odd twisted fear and relief, that he didn't actually mind. He neither indeed the concept of Potter fixing his mind - not after the success he had had so far - nor did he mind that the younger wizard stayed around him. That way, at least, he could glean what he was up to and not spent time in anxiety over it. And, he admitted to himself, he was curious about the limitations of Potter's being.

However, there was one thing. "You're my enemy. I'm yours," Voldemort said. "Can you imagine the impact it will have, if people will see you with me?"

"Yes," Potter agreed. "Your side will rejoice and then be suspicious and finally try assassinating me, in fear that I have some negative influence over you. My side will worry and fear and mount a rescue operation, thinking I'm under your control, and that will ruin your plans. And mine." He chuckled, as his long sleeved shirt grew a hood, and he pulled it over his head, to hide his hair, pulling the edge all the way down to cover his eyes. For incorporeal being, he made it look very believably physical move. "I'll keep myself a secret."

"Kindly do it with a robe instead, and I think we can work something out," Voldemort snorted and then frowned, eying the younger wizard's amused smile seriously. "You won't meddle with my plans?" he asked. "No matter what I do, not even if I have people killed? Your people?"

"If you have a good reason for it, no, I doubt I will," Potter said, smiling. It was strange, but he was more comfortable to look at, with the hood hiding his hair and eyes and only showing the lower half of his face and his smile. "No, I will just hover around, mostly doing nothing. I might even offer my opinion every now and again if I think it might help," he added. "So, do we have a deal?"

The dark lord hesitated, looking at the younger man to try and see if he had any ulterior motives. Then he nodded. "For now, I think this will do," he agreed, already wondering what he was getting into, and in the same time certain that it was not only perhaps the proper choice to make but, beyond pain of doubt, the _only_ choice he could make.

"Now, you get some sleep," Potter said, rolling himself up from the bed and to his feet in lone fluent motion that betrayed his existence - his thighs, for a moment, had slid inside the bed. "You've had a long day and will have another one."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at you knowing that," Voldemort murmured, but made no move to follow the instruction, not just yet. It would be very strange for him to merely lie down for sleep with Potter standing over him like this. "And what will you do?"

"I will make sure you will have pleasant dreams," the young man said, waved his hand, the sleeve of which falling to reveal thin, bony wrist. Then he was gone without sound or sight, like smoke that had dissolved into air. That, Voldemort thought while rubbing his hand over his eyes, was probably rather accurate description.

He hesitated for a moment longer, to think and worry and plan, before the fatigue started crawling back. With a sigh, stifling a yawn, he shifted to the middle of the bed, and beneath the covers. Maybe it had been a dream, he thought while lying his head to the pillow. Maybe it all was.

Probably not.

x

This was born out of another story which I started and never finished in which Harry gains access to his "Mental Room That Every Proper Occlumens Has" in which he was fixing his own thoughts and to which he "invited" Yoldemort so that they could have a chat. From that I got the idea of Harry somehow going into Voldemort's mind and fixing that up, and tadaa! I'm writing lot of Harry Joins Voldemort stories lately...


	4. Gaze Way, an Artemis Fowl crossover

Harry Potter x Artemis Fowl Crossover, taking place around the end of the Order of the Phoenix, and the Lost Colony. Beware of spoilers, and random de-aging.

**Gaze Way**

Harry Potter couldn't truly say that he was a smart person, or one inclined towards quiet contemplation. He was an active one, the sort of person who got several degrees smarter and quicker when there were things happening and lives at danger. He thought on his feet - preferably when there was running or flying involved. Standing still and thinking things through just wasn't his method of functioning. Which was possibly why his life seemed to revolve around rash decisions - most often than not, his own rash decisions.

Later in life, when single rash decision done on his feet, running and flying at the same time, had changed everything for him, he wondered whether that was a good thing or bad. He thought back to that single split-second decision, and wondered long and hard - mostly while pacing back and forth - how it could've turned out if he had stood back and thought things through.

Obviously, Sirius would've fallen and vanished. A single moment of hesitation from Harry's part, and Sirius would've been gone, vanished behind a veil of ragged cloth that somehow was enough to separate one dimension from another. Or alternate reality, which ever it was. But still, there were other things that might've happened. Harry would've been left behind - among friends, in world he knew…

Though, in hindsight, that might've not lasted for long. With Death Eaters and Voldemort running amok, his chances of continued survival had been somewhat small at the moment.

It had all happened so fast. They were there, beneath the Ministry, in Department of Mysteries, fighting for a bloody sphere of smoke, getting wounded and confused and very nearly dead for it. Death Eaters were there, chasing them and throwing curses at them, trying to catch them, catch the sphere, kill them… And then there was the Order and Dumbledore and… Sirius.

And then Sirius was falling towards the veil in what had seemed like slow motion, like video stalled, time slowed down artificially. There was no time, no time at all, not even a split of a second because Sirius had been falling right then and now and _there was no time at all_…

Later Harry thought he might've felt someone reaching out to him, fingers just barely grazing the back of his robes. He thought he might've seen Neville, or perhaps Luna, or Hermione and Ron - someone - in the corner of his eye, bleeding and confused and terrified, but he wasn't sure. Maybe there had been a Death Eater - Bellatrix Lestrange at least had been there - but it was all unimportant.

Maybe he hadn't made no decision at all. Maybe it had been just a reflex. He had ran forward, screaming Sirius's name, trying to reach him, intending to stop him before, before…

Together they had plummeted through the veil.

And for years and years Harry would wonder what it would've been, if he wasn't a person who thought on his feet - if he was one of those quiet thinkers who could stand still and think before rushing into actions, if he had just waited for a moment… if he had stayed in that world.

What would've happened with the Order and with the DA - with the War? With Voldemort? Would they have won or lost, died or triumphed, what would've happened - and did his absence change things? Did it make things worse there, or better? Was he vital component of the equation of his world's fate, or would it roll on without him, never even missing him?

He'd never know. And never stop wondering.

x

Artemis Fowl had a theory. If you had seen him at that moment and known anything about him, he could've seen it in his eyes. There was calculations and contemplations in his bi-coloured gaze, and numbers twitching at his fingers which seemed to itch to tackle a keyboard to write it all down. More than that, though, it was the closed off expression on his pale face that marked his mind the territory of a new idea.

"Are you sure this is the place, master Artemis?" asked Butler, who had been following the progress of the latest theory with vary eyes for the last two weeks or so and was now feeling the effects of the result. It was nothing he wasn't used to - also nothing he would ever get adjusted to - but there was something about Artemis' ideas these days that made his skin crawl.

"Not as such, Butler, no," the boy answered, looking around and taking everything in. "It is not _the_ place, it is _a_ place, one of several hundred in fact. It is however the one place closest to us - and one of the few I've observed to be isolated enough for this experiment."

Butler smothered the urge to scowl - or perhaps sigh. Experiment, indeed. He almost asked what exactly where they experimenting and what the hell was going on the young genius' brain this time, but smothered the urge. Three years might've passed for him since their last harebrained scheme, not that Artemis would ever admit the suitability of that word, but nothing had truly changed. Artemis would tell him when he thought it would be necessary.

"Alright then," Butler said instead and looked around again. "Where do you want the cameras to go?"

Artemis glanced around and then started pointing the approximate locations, leaving it to his bodyguard to select the best spots. Butler got to work, managing not to grumble about how they were wasting perfectly good - and perfectly expensive - surveillance equipment on a _sewer_. And it was indeed a sewer - a very old and no longer in use, one of the large cavernous tunnels beneath down-town London which still, despite the fact that it had not been in use for better part of decade, rank foully of waste.

It was a _first_, Butler thought. Nothing new there, with Artemis there were many _firsts_, but Butler had never really thought that Artemis would ever bring them to a sewer. Especially with the intent of putting up a surveillance.

But with Artemis there was also a good reason, so Butler went about his work, setting up the cameras and bugs and all the other equipment Artemis wanted to put up. From the ground, the boy looked up to his process with a handkerchief held over his mouth, but otherwise seemingly unbothered by the smell. The boy nodded with satisfaction once Butler was done, and beaconed him to join him.

"It is most likely possible that nothing will happen in months, perhaps not even years," Artemis admitted while pulling out a smart phone and linking in with the cameras Butler had just spent twenty minutes setting up. "I will be setting up a automated alarm which will alert me the moment anything occurs here, but otherwise we need not to keep up with the feed personally."

"I see," Butler mused, glancing around and wondering if it was like with the demons. He could only hope it wasn't time travel - Artemis had already vanished for three years because of it and Butler doubted that another stint of the kind would be a little more than his family could handle.

"Tell me something, Artemis," the bodyguard said after a moment of silence, figuring that he probably wouldn't be able to manage the question without asking it for long - and that he needed to know anyway, as the boy's bodyguard. "Does this have something to do with time travel?"

The prodigy glanced up, mismatched eyes amused. "Is that worry I detect in your tone of voice, Butler?" he asked while closing the phone's retractable panel and then sliding the device into his pocket. "I have to admit, though, that was very good deduction."

"Not much of a guess, considering what your last plan was about," Butler muttered, thinking back to demons and Hybras and three years lost.

"Indeed," Artemis said, conceding the point with a slight nod. "It is not exactly correct however, as what I am studying here is not in fact time, but space," he said. "It is only a theory, but if my calculations and observations are anywhere correct, this is one of the spaces where it might be possible to detect an alternate reality."

Had Butler been working for any other person, he might not have understood the meaning of the words. But eighteen years serving the Fowls, good six of them spent in contact with fairies and their fairly futuristic sciences, he had picked up a thing or two. "Here?" he asked, looking around dubiously.

"Yes, indeed, here," Artemis agreed with a nod of his head. "It has to do with the continental placements, geography and the flow of natural earthly magic, or Ley lines as some call them. Here there is what can only be called a breach - a spot where the geography and magic move against and towards each other to the point that they both overlap and repel one another."

"I thought magic normally flows in the ground," Butler said, now a little confused. They had moved onto the territory he didn't really understand.

"Yes, it does, of course," the young mastermind nodded. "But there are variables and unknowns - certain alloys and ores have their own auras and energies. Here there used to be an amalgamation of that sort of powers, of earthly auras that forced the natural magic to flow around this place. Whatever caused that knot of auras is long since gone - the ore was most likely mined dry thousands of years ago - but the energy remains. The natural magic has however started flowing in again and now the two energies overlap, all the while repelling each other, causing a type of knot of chaotic energy."

Butler looked around, now frowning. "There is magic flowing here?" he asked, somewhat disbelieving. Magic usually wasn't exactly invisible - there were sparks and static electricity. Here he couldn't feel a thing.

"Yes, here. You wouldn't feel it - I cannot either," Artemis said, straightening the labels of his suit jacket absently. "The energies are too subtle for a human to perceive. However was there a fairy here, I imagine they would feel violently ill, perhaps even lose their consciousness."

"Is it dangerous to us?" Butler asked his frown breaking out to full blown scowl. Had Artemis knowingly endangered himself, _again_?

"No, no, not in the slightest," Artemis assured him, not at all reassuring. "At the worst we might have some odd dreams tonight, but that is nothing we shouldn't be able to handle. I'm more worried about the equipment, really. Some of the sensors are very sensitive."

Butler continued scowling, but didn't answer.

"Now, I believe we are ready to leave," Artemis said, making a slight face behind his protective handkerchief. "The smell is starting to get to me."

x

The only word Harry could think for the experience behind the Veil was that it was violent. Chaotic even. It was colours and sounds and sensations and none of it made any sense. It was revelations and memories and passing thoughts. It felt like whatever magic that churned inside the archway was trying to tear him apart - all the while trying to stitch him together, but without any intention of getting any of the parts into the right order. It was tugging at his arms and legs and at Sirius to whom Harry was tightly clinging onto - and his very mind, reaching invisible fingers inside his head and trying to tear his thoughts apart.

_Don't drop your wand,_ he thought, as a stray strand of energy tried to peel back his fingers. It was all he could think with the sensations pulling at his mind and thoughts, scattering them apart like throwaway pebbles scattered across a very messy courtyard. _Whatever will happen, you're going to need your wand. Hold onto it. Don't let it slip pass your fingers._

He didn't need to remind himself to hold onto Sirius - he couldn't have let go of him even if he had tried. The necessity of getting godfather safe and free and _clear_ was so obvious, so overwhelmingly pressing that he didn't even need to think about it - he just did it without a second thought. His wand though felt like it was slipping away - broken apart, faded, turned to smoke and ash and blown far away - and he needed to seriously concentrate to keep it.

They needed to get out of the Veil, somehow. He didn't know how, but somehow he knew it didn't lead to death or afterlife or anything of the sort - it just _was_, this pit and wellspring of mad magic, with unknown purpose and immense power. The thought came from nowhere, but he found himself trusting it - and knowing that they needed, they _had to_ get out.

_Out_, he thought, _we need to get out_.

He could feel Sirius at his side, breaking apart and coming together and thinking in faded faraway thoughts that were somehow close enough for Harry to actually hear them. _If only,_ thought Sirius, tired and confused and nowhere near as whole as Harry was - too worn to keep himself intact. _If only things were as they were. So much time lost, twelve years - fifteen now. If only…_ but the thought flickered past Harry and away, too incoherent to hold integrity.

_Later, Sirius, later_, Harry thought to him, or tried to. His wand was slipping away again and he gripped it hard and tight. It felt like he was holding mist or water that flowed past and around his fingers, too insubstantial to hold. _There isn't time. We need to get out of here, whole and healthy. Keep it together!_

He looked - if it could be called that when he wasn't even sure where his eyes were - and looked, trying to find an opening, a way out, something. The veil behind them was closed, he could sense it distantly - blocked off, sealed, forcibly closed off, one way opening, nothing more. They needed some other way. At this point anything would do. A breach - or a thought, a straying memory of a place would do. Anything…

_It was so much better when we were young. Before all this shit,_ Sirius was thinking, regretting his whole life with the power of an abyss that made it feel like Harry was holding a black hole, not a man. _We were so happy. We could've been so happy. Damn shitty family - if I had had different parents, maybe…_

Harry growled - or thought of growling. _Keep it together and keep Sirius from breaking apart - and don't lose your wand, damn it,_ he thought and looked ahead and around and somehow everywhere all at once. _Opening, we need an opening. Keep it together and find an opening._

It wasn't really an opening, but a vision. Harry peered and thought at it, flinging his ideas at it's surface until he found something, he couldn't tell what, a line of vision perhaps, a gaze? Someone was watching, there, like a straight line in mess of bends, like a stone in a river, or maybe a string inside a liquid, something steady and tangible… Harry's thoughts strayed, threatening to shatter, but he could feel the line of the odd gaze - he could hold onto it!

Beside him, Sirius was withering, shrinking, almost vanishing in the regrets and wishes and what ifs of a man who had wasted his life away in prison. _If only… if only…_ he thought, thinking back to his first year at Hogwarts and all the things he could've done, the many, many things he could've done, the potential he had had, the possibilities… _If only…_

Harry snarled. There was no time!

With his mind straining and groaning, he held onto himself and Sirius and his almost-gone-wand and pushed against the knot of energy that flowed the wrong way - and through it. He bit his teeth into it and dug his fingers and finally stomped his foot at the edges, and tore what was a breach or maybe a knot, or maybe nothing at open. It wasn't easy - it was, he knew, the hardest and most dangerous thing he had ever done - but it had to be done.

He had to get them out before both of them would lose it.

x

Artemis was thinking about his theory, as they made their way towards the ladder that would get them out of the sewers and from the stench. It was a good theory. Brilliant in fact.

In all fairness, though, he had several brilliant theories in several walks of life, several courses of philosophy, and even more on various scientific ventures, but this one took the priority.

It was a fledgling theory, he admitted in somewhere in the back of his mind, and not really as much a theory as it was a hunch. Of course, his hunch as it was got the backing of two week's worth of calculations and several hijacked satellites that had provided him with some interesting data, and some other sources of information, but he still had no proof or anything that could be called _sound_ - even his calculations tended to jump and flicker all about without any care for the laws of physics or nature.

But it was still a theory and even after the objection of his mind carefully considered and filed away, it was also a very important one. It had started in Hybras, he recalled, in a small flicker of vision and understanding that had taken him and passed him by when the time vortex had started to consume the island, the tunnel deteriorating. An alternate universe had made itself apparent to him and then vanished, connection closed almost as soon as it had been made.

It had got him thinking - and more. Time travel was possible, even probable, and could be calculated and predicted. Even something as random as the appearances of demons due to the collapsing time tunnel could be calculated to the time and place. Alternate realities were also, obviously, not only possible but real. Their reality was not a unireality after all, but in fact a multireality - a multiverse even, with a new reality being created with every decision made and action taken.

Though, of course he was fairly certain that creation of alternate realities couldn't hang on the balance of such a flimsy thing - it would've strained every equation to the bursting point of a reality was made every time a person wondered what cheese to use in their sandwich. No, it was most likely that new realities were born when _significant_ choices were made. Or, perhaps, _magical_ ones.

That was, however, an idea within an idea, and he would consider it on a later date.

Now, he merely wanted to prove that his theory was correct so far, to have the solid ground of proof to stand on. Here, he suspected, it would take time. It wasn't like with Hybras and the demons - there was no deteriorating time tunnel to set the time and schedule. Here he was relying on the possibility that somewhere on some other reality people had already discovered the ability to travel between separate Earths and were actually doing it - and that the ability to travel between realities was reliant of the laws of nature and magic and that they would have to breach through to his world through a weak point, a knot of chaotic magic.

_Listen to me,_ he thought with a barely smothered snort while rubbing his tingling nose. _My world._

The theory wasn't sound, or even slightly probable. He was relying on too many unknown variables which he had no way of confirming or predicting. The chances of anyone ever travelling to his Earth from another Earth were slim at best, not to mention about the chance that they would come out through his predicted route.

But he wasn't actually risking anything in putting up a surveillance. If nothing happened, he would lose nothing but some cameras and sensory equipment, after all - and even they could be retrieved later when he so wished. And if something did happen…

Like in answer to his straying thoughts, the smart phone in his pocket let out a buzz of noise, drawing his attention. Stopping in misstep, he pulled the phone out and then opened it. _Activity detected_ the screen informed him. _Four point seven degree increase in temperature. Fifteen point zero nine percent increase in air pressure -_ and then a zap of energy killed one of the sensors, sending a spike of messy data that dwindled out as soon as it had happened.

"Quick, Butler, back!" Artemis said, turning. "Something is happening. I need to see -"

"Absolutely not," Butler answered and before Artemis could get a word through, Butler had him up his arms, then up the ladder and all of sudden Artemis was standing on the street above, blinking in the sunlight. Butler followed him immediately after and went as far as to close the heavy sewer lid after him.

"Butler -" Artemis started and to his shock was interrupted again.

"No, Artemis. The last time you wanted to observe something up close, you ended up being dragged back in time and very nearly got yourself killed - and I will not take the chance of having something like Taipei 101 happening again," Butler said sternly, decisively mulish expression on his face. He nodded towards a safe spot across the street. "We will go over there, you will observe what is happening through your phone and once it's over we can maybe go down again."

Artemis opened his mouth, fully intending to argue. Then, after actually taking in his bodyguard's expression, he closed his mouth again. With that look in his eyes, Butler truly turned into the man-shaped mountain people saw him as, and even Artemis's best formed arguments could do nothing to change it. "Very well," the prodigy said, turning his attention somewhat irritably to his phone. "We will wait."

While Butler ushered him across the alley and to a secure spot, Artemis concentrated onto the cameras and sensors he controlled through the phone. Something was happening, definitely. Fluctuations in air pressure and temperature - now even the cocktail of gasses was changing slightly. Another zap of invisible energy very nearly took out his third camera, but missed just slightly, leaving Artemis with perfect view to the wall, which shimmered…

And then broke open.

"Fascinating," he whispered to himself, as the wall seemed to sink into itself and what would very well be an sci-fi author's concept of what black hole - or perhaps a worm hole - appeared. It seemed to suck the bricks of the wall in to itself, rain of breaking mural making the wall seem to ripple. It was a small hole yet, tiny, but as Artemis watched, switching between cameras to get the best view, it grew larger.

Blind and deaf to Butler's many security measures as the bodyguard made sure that Artemis was as safe as he could be on the dirty London back alley, the teenage mastermind watched as the breach in reality grew. Then he saw something he at first thought to be perhaps rock or rubble, but turned out to be a _hand_. A left hand, to be exact - a male hand, judging by the knuckles and wrist - which grabbed a hold of the edge of the hole in reality, and started to push at it.

_Incredible,_ Artemis thought as the hand forced the hole to grow bigger. Then there was a foot - clad in a dirty sneaker - which started to push the bottom of the hole downwards. Someone was actually tearing their way through the hole, _physically_, like a dwarf would tear his way out a tight tunnel.

The hole grew eventually big enough for whoever was pushing through - and push through he did. Artemis watched, recording and wondering and feeling almost giddy, as a person - a _human_ person! - fell forward and to the bottom of the sewer in undignified heap of limbs and clothes. It took Artemis no more than second to count that there were too many limbs - and that it was not just one person.

"Humans from another world," he whispered, watching as the breach in reality closed behind the two visitors from. It sunk shut much faster than it had opened - almost like a snap - and only odd ripples and twists in the formerly neat lines of bricks showed that there had ever been anything there. "Interesting, very interesting," Artemis murmured and turned the volume of the phone up, in case the two would make noises.

Despite their somewhat violent entry, two travellers were perfectly conscious, the taller one shifting where he lay and groaning in what didn't sound like pain but exasperation - the sort of voice you could use to say _not again_. The smaller shape, who was being shielded by the taller person, let out a soft whine and a sniffle, making Artemis realise that it was probably a child.

"Sirius?" the taller human asked, shifting to lean onto his elbow. Artemis looked him over, switching between camera's quickly to see him from all possible angles, taking him in quickly. Male, in his late teens, pale skinned with black hair and round rimmed glasses, wearing what looked like a black _robe_ of all things, or perhaps even a cape. Interesting.

"Sirius, are you alright?" the spectacled teen asked, as he brushed his hand over his hair, and was then was alerted by an odd colour coating his fingers. Artemis raised his eyebrow at them as well - the elder teen's fingers were dark brown, almost black. The reality-traveller stared at his fingers in confusion for a moment, before something caught his attention. The child in his arms.

"Hawwy?" the toddler asked, soft and teary eyed as the teen stared him in what looked rather like horror.

Artemis, not caring for the tinny sound of his phone's speakers and making a mental note to improve the sound quality when he had time later on, looked up to his bodyguard. "Can we go down now?" he snapped somewhat impatiently.

"Is it over?" Butler asked, unmoved by the cutting tone.

"There is no danger, nor was there in the begin with. The meagre discharge of energy is dissipating and the environment is stable - see it for yourself," Artemis said, handing the phone over. Butler accepted it with a slightly vary look and glanced over the information, flicking through the videos expertly without even lifting an eyebrow at the two humans that had appeared seemingly from nowhere.

"Very well," Butler said at last. "I will go in first."

Artemis very nearly swatted this bit of over-protectiveness down by pointing out that if his bodyguard went down first, Artemis would be open for assault from above and from the sides - but decided against it. It would do nothing but waste time. "After you then, old friend," he said instead and followed his bodyguard back to the sewer opening.

x

Harry stared, unable to even blink. He was… fairly certain that the boy under his arm was Sirius. The boy had Sirius's ragged robes, long black hair - Harry could even see a hint of a familiar alchemic tattoo on the boy's chest from where the neckline of the robe hung low. But a _boy_? Sirius had been a man on his late thirties the last time Harry had looked - not to mention about being aged beyond his years by Azkaban.

"Sirius?" Harry asked softly. "Is that… you?"

"I feel weiwd," the boy, who had Sirius's clothes, hair and even his dark eyes, mumbled, and then screwed his face into expression of dismay. "My mouth. It doesn't wowk wight. What whappened?"

Harry blinked rabidly and then quickly sat up - so quickly that he very nearly made himself dizzy. He looked behind them - to where they had came from - but could only see a solid brick wall. "No archway," he murmured, looking up the wall and to the corners, making sure that it was really just a wall. They had gotten out of the… chaos somehow, but how? There was no opening here, not that he could see. No opening, yet they were out - and Sirius was changed.

Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes. His head was aching, feeling like someone had stuffed it full of owl feathers and then lit all the feathers on fire. He could still feel the chaos somewhere behind his eyeballs, churning and twisting in odd, insane energy. For a moment, as the sensation of the odd magic peaked, he was certain that they hadn't left the chaos at all, but were still there - before an odd feel at his eye made him return sharply to reality.

He frowned and looked at his right hand again, at the darkened fingers. Flexing them slowly, making a fist and then relaxing his fingers again, he quickly figured out that they still worked. But they weren't the same. as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, he couldn't really feel it, only a small clip as they hit together the first time. His fingers no longer had skin, it seemed. Instead they were coated with what had been his wand just a little while ago.

"Hawwy?" Sirius asked, shifting to his side and leaning to Harry's bent knee with tiny hands. Only then Sirius seemed to notice that not only was his voice changed, but the rest of him as well. He stared at his hands for a moment before touching his face and looking down to himself, his small body covered in robes several feet too long for him, shock written plainly on his young features. Then he looked up, lower lip quivering, tears in his wide eyes. "Hawwy, what whappened to me?"

Harry snapped his eyes to his shrunken godfather again, his mind lurching as it jumped into realisation. "In the chaos, I was thinking," he started, and then paused to steady his fumbling thoughts. He had thought of his wand, of keeping it with him, not letting it slip out of his fingers. And now… now… He looked at his hand again, and touched his fingers with his left hand. His fingers were coated with wood. His wand's wood.

"Sirius, you idiot," he said before he was able to stop himself. Harry had been thinking of keeping hold of his wand, and now his wand was physically attached to his fingers. Sirius had been regretting his life in the chaos, thinking of his childhood. And now here he was. A child again.

"What?" the boy demanded in heartbroken tone. "Idiot?"

"You were thinking - I was - the place, the chaos behind the archway, it somehow affected us," Harry tried to say, but the words came out unsteady. He felt oddly ill and unbalanced - he knew without doubt that if he would try to stand up, he'd probably throw up. "You were thing, uh, childhood, something, and now you're -" he waved his hand over the other, indicating his size. "A kid."

"I… was," the boy admitted, his eyes wide and oddly shaking, like he couldn't hold his gaze still. He shook his head and slumped back to his knees, his little hands twisting the fabric of Harry's robes. "I was.. I was thinking… yeaws, so many yeaws lost. It would be bettew, bettew if… it was bettew bewowe, I dun know… it's weiwd…"

"A-and I was thinking of… of keeping my hold of my…" Harry looked at his hand. "I bought it when I was eleven," he remembered suddenly, the memory making his dizziness even worse. "I bought it when I was eleven and now it's coating my fingers!"

"Hawwy," the toddler who was Sirius moaned. "I dun feel too good."

"Me neither," Harry admitted, swallowing around a ball of nausea that was trying to rise up his throat.

"It is no doubt the travel through realities that has made you ill - and the ambient magic in this place is hardly helping your recovery along," an unknown voice spoke, making both Harry and Sirius to look up to see a black haired boy little younger than Harry and practical mountain of a man standing not far away from them. "I would suggest vacating the area at least until your stomachs settle."

Harry stared at the boy blearily for a moment, blinded by nausea and confusion. "Where are we?" he asked finally, as Sirius pressed to his side, driven by the instincts of a child to seek comfort in him.

"In a sewer beneath a back alley not far from the twenty-fifth's street in downtown London," the boy answered. "And, I suspect, in a completely different world from the one you just left behind."

"World?" Harry asked while absently wrapping his arm around Sirius's small form. "Than the one we left… oh," he murmured, closing his eyes and fighting the nausea and the churn of chaos behind his eyes. It was getting harder to think. Ambient magic, the boy had said. Yes, he could feel something like it now - he could feel a lingering sensation of the same magic that had melted his wand into his fingers.

"Hawwy?" Sirius asked, shivering and pale, the brain of a child not allowing the logic and experience of a man stomp down his obvious fears. "I-I feel sick."

Harry rubbed his forehead. "Me too. We need to get out of here, away from the… from the chaos," he decided. Once they would get clear, he'd be able to think again, maybe.

However, when he tried to get up, his knees buckled almost immediately and fell back down again, swallowing hard to stop himself from throwing up. Sirius, his smaller body weaker against the sensation, didn't get even that far and only barely managed to turn away from Harry before throwing up.

"Butler," the odd teen on the side said, and a moment later Harry felt strong hands at his shoulders, guiding him up easily. While fighting down the urge to relinquish his lunch to the sewer floor, Harry could see younger teen - a Muggle, maybe, he wore the clothes of one - lifting Sirius from the floor.

"What are you -" Harry started, and then quickly covered his mouth with his wood-fingered hand, only barely managing to swallow the pile back down.

"Let's get you out of here before you'll lose your breakfast," the big man holding him upright said, and Harry was weak to fight against him as he and Sirius was quickly guided out of the sewers.

x

It took four blocks and three breaks before the two dimensional travellers regained the control of their stomachs, both looking tired and weary after the walk and the fight against the nausea. Artemis observed them with professional curiosity, while Butler eased the spectacled teen to sit on a park bench, where the little boy in oversized robes quickly crawled to the teen's side.

"Thanks," the green eyed teenager groaned, leaning his head back. He was breathing fast and the tendons of his neck flickered as he swallowed. "Merlin, that was vile," he said, even while wrapping an arm around the little boy who quickly made his way to his lap.

_Merlin?_ Artemis thought, quickly securing that titbit of information away for later use. "You are very welcome," the teenage genius said, looking him up and down. The elder teen really did wear robes - as did the little boy, though his were far too large for him. For reality travellers they weren't particularly well prepared judging by what Artemis could see - which made him suspect that they weren't travelling intentionally.

"I take it that you weren't quite expecting this type of landing?" he asked thoughtfully

The spectacled teen snorted tiredly, giving him a tired look. "Not quite," he said, and then offered his odd, dark fingered hand for a shake. "My name is Harry Potter. Thanks again for getting us out."

"Artemis Fowl, it's a pleasure," Artemis answered, shaking the hand and then holding it by the palm, examining the elder teen's fingers. They felt hard and cold, like fingers of a doll. "It's wood," he realised with surprise. He had thought that Potter's fingers were coated with some sort of dark paint, or perhaps a tattoo.

"Yeah," Potter answered, flexing his fingers much to Artemis's fascination. They still bent like normal fingers. How extraordinary. "Holly," the elder teen added, making Artemis snap his eyes up from the hand he was still holding in his.

"Excuse me?" Artemis asked, his mind blacking out for a split of a moment. _He can't know Holly Short, can he?_

"The wood, it's holly," Potter said, pulling his hand back. "I was holding a wooden… instrument in my hand. It was made of holly. The chaos melded it into my fingers."

"It's surprisingly dark for holly," Artemis said, lifting his eyebrow. Chaos, again. Perhaps it was what Potter's people called whatever stood between realities - which, Artemis suspected, was probably much like time vortex. If that was it, then chaos was probably an apt description.

"It's the polish," Potter said tiredly and then looked down when the boy in his arms tugged at his collar. He frowned slightly and then bend his head so that the boy could whisper something to his ear _Sirius_, Artemis thought, _that is what Potter called him, wasn't it?_

"How did you happen to… come by us?" Potter asked after listening to the boy, apparently repeating the question the boy was too scared or too tired to ask himself. "It was a sewer, it's not every day you take a stroll in a sewer. Especially in _suits_," he added, glancing Artemis and Butler up and down.

"Knowledge and happy chance of lucky coincidence," Artemis answered, though he wasn't absolutely sure about it. Coincidences like this didn't happen for a reason. "I was aware that something like this might occur in those sewers - due to the magic's conversing and overlapping in that specific spot - though I was not entirely positive when. It was merely luck that the day you broke through happened to be the same day I set up my surveillance."

"Surveillance. You were watching that place - watching out for the chaos," Potter murmured, wooden fingers thoughtfully over his lips. "You were the one I followed out. Huh."

"Excuse me?" Artemis asked, blinking.

"In the chaos. I was… I could feel someone watching, I used it to make us a way out - I followed your gaze, sort of," Potter said, frowning. "If that makes any sense."

Artemis thought about it for a moment, eying the elder teen and the small child. Time vortex, according to Qwan, was mostly an emotional construct. Perhaps the space between realities was comparable to it. It seemed to have similar effects - things melting into people and change in physical age, that sort of thing. Time vortex responded to external influence, so having this one do the same wasn't that big of a leap. It was extremely lucky thought that Potter had gotten trapped in the _chaos_ just as Artemis had set up his surveillance…

_Unless_ _he hadn't_, Artemis thought, his eyes widening slightly. "Tell me, what year do you come from?" he asked, calculating the chances in his head and coming up eighty seven percent just with the first try.

"Ninety-six. Nineteen-ninety-six, I mean," Potter answered with a slow, weary blink. "Why?"

"It is the year two-thousand and three now, here" Artemis answered. "It is possible that you felt my surveillance not only through space but also through time - and followed it through them both."

"Huh," Potter said, his eyelids dropping slightly. "I didn't know it was possible to travel forward in time."

"It is," Artemis confirmed, wondering what the other knew about time travel. It wasn't exactly common subject. But maybe things were different where Potter came from. "It is only very difficult and very dangerous unless you have a beacon to follow."

"This is all very fascinating, master Artemis," Butler intersected, looking over Artemis's head and along the street where a small group of young men were walking to their direction, looking at them curiously. "But perhaps this is not the best place to have this conversation."

Artemis glanced up. "Hm. Yes, I agree," he said, and turned to Potter. "I would like to extend an invitation for you and your companion to join me in my hotel," he said. "We should be able to continue our discussion in private there. I can also offer you a chance to clean up and change your attire to something more suitable for this world."

"Kind of you," Potter said and yawned before looking down to the boy in his arms. Little Sirius was putting up a valiant fight, but he was rabidly loosing against his own fatigue. "I guess we have no choice but to accept."

xx

So, I got into Eoin Colfer recently, and after reading _the Airman _I decided to read the rest of his work, starting with _Artemis Fowl_. And after I was done I obviously had to check out the fanfictions scene because in my head it's not a fandom before there's some fanfiction about it. And then I had to try some myself. And because this is how I enter just about all my new fandoms, I had to start out with a Harry Potter crossover. I fear I didn't do justice for neither Artemis nor Butler, but it was only the second attempt, so maybe it can be justified. I have more for this, and plan, and everything (which involves lot of Sirius-humiliation for the sake of the cuteness) but I doubt whether or not I will actyually finish it, so here's the beginning of it, another idea for Toil and Trouble.

And as always, my apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	5. Aurum Est Potestas, HP x AF crossover

Warnings...? Sort of Harry Potter x Artemis Fowl Crossover. No spoilers, drabble story.

**Aurum Est Potestas**

**1. Anarchy**

Baby Harry Potter listens to the chaos beyond the wooden boarders of his new home. Outside, two adults are arguing loudly about space and prestige money and how much space and time and effort would be wasted on him, what would their neighbours think and how much taking another child would cost them. Mostly they talk about money, about cost of upkeep, food, clothing, toys, hospital bills, school… They haggle every penny, fighting to stretch them as far as they can, deciding to recycle as much as possible and give him as little as possible - to try and make it seem like he wasn't even there.

Baby Harry thinks of his parents, his mother dead on the floor and father who wouldn't come to fetch him, and wonders.

**2. Out**

Aunt Petunia hugs Dudley close, praising him for every little thing. Uncle Vernon slaps his son's back joyously and congratulates him for imaginary successes. They bring him new toys and fill his mouth and hand with candies and let him watch TV for as long as he wants. When he screams, they do everything to calm him down and soothe him, smothering in tokens of their affection.

When Harry does _anything_, he is locked in the cupboard until he quiets down. The first time he tries to hug Aunt Petunia, he is almost thrown to the floor - with Uncle Vernon he knows better than to even try. When he tries to approach Dudley to see if his cousin would like to play, Aunt Petunia pushes him back with her foot - or locks him in the cupboard. If he cries, he is screamed at until he quiets down - once, Aunt Petunia shakes him until he's dizzy and his head aches. If he reaches for something, asking to have it, his fingers are slapped. If he tries to take something, _he_ is slapped.

He learns quickly.

**3. Relevance**

His clothes hang on him, worn and too big for his slight frame - his shirts hang below his knees, his socks have holes and they're loose and too big. He doesn't get toys at all and Dudley never forgets to point out that everything Harry has actually belongs to him. The one time Harry dares to ask, could he get a new toy too since Dudley is getting one, he regrets for few days afterwards.

He is not worth as much as Dudley is.

**4. Creator**

Harry watches and learns, as Aunt Petunia sews a hole in Dudley's shirt shut, how she patched up a torn knee with a patch of fabric, how she uses safety pins to make his jacket stay shut. Some time later, Harry takes the needle and the yarn, and does it himself. He cuts the extra fabric off and makes his shirt fit, he strengthens a worn patch with sturdier fabric and makes it work, he sews the holes in his socks and even manages to make his pants stop from falling with some neat stitch work.

He can't sew his worn sneakers, so they fix themselves up for him.

When his punishment is over, he swears never to try to fix things again.

**5. Resolution**

Possessions are power, Harry learns this early on. He was weak and no one ever listened to him because he had nothing. Dudley on other hand had everything he wanted and needed, so he was powerful. Aunt Petunia bought things, brought new things in all the time, so she was powerful. Uncle Vernon was the most powerful of the lot; he brought in the money with which things were bought.

The difficulty, Harry realises, is in the fact that he had no way of getting things. He had no authority, he couldn't leave the house, he couldn't ask, he had no money…

Money, he thinks, is the key to everything.

**6. Fender**

"Absolutely not!" Aunt Petunia screeches when Harry suggests that maybe he could get paid a little for the chores he did - because they are like work. "It is not enough for you that we give you a bed to sleep and food to eat, is it? Now you want _money_ as well? Get the idiotic notion out of your head this instance! You're big enough burden as it is!"

**7. Enemy**

It doesn't take long for Harry to realise that his family stands between him and any hope of gaining money - or power. Every idea he comes up with is quickly shot down by Aunt Petunia and any suggestion receives a loud, sneering laugh - or punishment - from Uncle Vernon. And all the while they do this, they hand money and gifts and privileges to Dudley like these were things that grow in the trees - and Dudley takes great pleasure in _not sharing_.

The seed of dissatisfaction starts to sprout in Harry's mind, and his family gains a new name in his head.

**8. Bye**

Uncle Vernon reads the paper every morning, and Harry watches as he grumbles about the races and the news and the weather and the stock market. Every now and again, he snorts and scowls and points something about the paper out to Aunt Petunia, laughing or incredulous or actually interested. It's like a secret language they have, the paper, and Harry doesn't like it, now when they could - when they probably are - using it to keep him in position of the weak and oblivious.

So, at age of two and half, Harry starts teaching himself to read.

**9. Intellect**

He learns letters from the kid's show Aunt Petunia makes Dudley watch, which tries to teach his cousin new things and fails each and every time. He learns his first numbers from the weather forecasts, his first words from the news reports. Couple months after starting, he learns the rest, word by word, from advertisements and news papers. And so the new world of written word opens beneath his eyes, willing to divulge all its secrets to him.

By the time he's three, he moves from newspapers to the twenty-nine volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica that adorn the lower shelves of the sitting room bookshelves - which no one in the house has ever bothered to even open.

**10. Onus**

From the twenty-nine books of Encyclopedia Britannica he learns about abuse, bigotry, contumely, despotism, he learns about maltreatment and rights of minors, he learns about family and parenthood and the duties of guardians - and he learns to apply these things to his situation. He learns he has something, he has _rights_ and that there are _laws_ that all people need to follow, and that his rights are among those laws.

He learns that he's rights are being violated.

And, more importantly, he learns that he _can_ do something about it.

**11. Area**

At age of three years and four months, Harry Potter calls the police in the middle of the night, claiming he is being abused. The officer at the other end listens with growing astonishment and apprehension as the little boy accurately describes the verbal and mental abuse, claiming the lack of suitable care and healthy growing environment, saying that his natural growth is being inhibited by his sleeping area - which, being a cupboard, is entirely too small - and by his diet - which does not meet the requirements of a rabidly growing child. The boy even accurately describes his own malnourishment, telling his weight and height and explaining that he's almost a full stone under weight.

In the end, the officer can only ask one question after the boy supplies all the information from his guardian's names, ages and physical description, even going as far as to detail their financial situation as far as he could understand it. "Can you tell me the address?"

Harry does. The police arrive within ten minutes.

xx

Another sort of AF x HP crossover idea I had. I was thinking how much easier the Magical World would be to exploit in comparison to the Fairy One. And then I thought how interesting it would be if Harry had the personality and the values of Artemis Fowl and did that exploiting himself. And then I made it a drabble story because I need to have one for every fandom, apparently. I might continue this is I can figure out a good plot for it.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such


	6. Nameless, Tom Riddle centric AU drabbles

Warnings: none, though this one is a bit dark. Tom Riddle centric drabble story.

**Nameless  
**

1.

Tom Riddle would never know, but there was a man present when he was born, and when his mother died. A black haired young man with bright green eyes and faint smile on his face, looking down to him when he drew first hungry breath into lungs that had never breathed before. He never knew it that the man held his forehead for a moment, smoothing back still damp baby-fine hair, speaking his Name - Naming him even before his tired, dying mother could.

But the man Named him something different - it was not _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ he said, but a Name only handful of people would ever say out loud, a Name that would be more his than Tom Riddle ever would, a Name that would define him. A Name that would, one day, doom him.

2.

Harry was a child, that stayed in the orphanage for a month when Tom was six, before dying. He was a scrawny little thing, four years of age, thin and wide eyed and even stranger than Tom was. His hair was messy jet black that sucked the light from the air and eyes were bottomless and shallow in the same time. Looking at them was like looking at a distorted mirror, and not seeing the mirror itself, only the image it reflected, green and gaunt.

He was Tom's first and only friend; he would follow him up and down the corridors and hold his hand when ever he could. He spoke of things like flying and fire and magic, and told Tom that one day he would meet a snake bigger than an elephant. Tom didn't believe him, not then, but he humoured him because Harry was the only one not spooked by his presence.

Harry died on All Hallows' Eve. No one knew why.

3.

When Tom was seven, he was allowed to go to the library. He met Mr. Potter there, an old man who worked the counter and stamped the cards and sent you letters if you had failed to bring the book back in time. Mr. Potter was quiet, skinny old man with messy hair and round glasses and eyes of pale green that seemed cold and warm at the same time.

He showed Tom the section where to find the fairytales of witches and wizards and dragons and such, and on one brilliant afternoon read aloud to him from old, battered copy of some nameless storybook about three brothers and Death. He was Tom's favourite adult, even when he told Tom to do his homework and that getting good grades was important.

Half a year into the acquaintance, the library was burned and Mr. Potter died in the fire.

4.

James was a gangly teenager who hung around the corner not far from the orphanage. Black haired and nervous, he smoked stolen cigarettes and fidgeted when he saw adults. Tom met him only few times on his way to the near by school, and they exchanged words about common dislike towards adults and rules and school work and the misfortune of poverty. Once James offered him a taste of his cigarette. Tom refused, and James looked oddly pleased by it, as he finished the smoke by himself.

Tom didn't see him again.

5.

Tom was eight, when he ran away from the orphanage, thinking that it would improve the situation. The orphanage was doing badly, they had no money and food was short - and great big part of it was going to the caretakers, and not to the kids. Tom, the disliked runt of the orphan litter, was given mere scraps and ended up feeling hungry thorough the day. When the days stretched to weeks, he finally decided that it must be better anywhere but there.

Four blocks away, he met the Boy. "Don't remember my name, Boy's always been it," he said when Tom asked. He was thin and almost ratty in his ruined clothing, with his eyes sunken and his hair dirty, his cheekbones sticking out. In certain light, he looked rather like a skeleton. "Oh, I eat, of course, when ever I manage to beg well enough," he said, and laughed - a horrible, hollow sound. "And when I do _more_, I might even eat twice a day. That's something, that."

Tom returned to the orphanage an hour later. No one had noticed he had been missing.

6.

Harold was an elder student in the school where Tom learned how to read and write and count. He was quiet and studious and bullied between classes by group of three bigger boys, who shoved him around and messed up his books and broke his glasses. He never fought back, which annoyed Tom more than he could say. "Why don't you?" he asked, demanded to know. "You're not _stupid_."

"Wouldn't make much a difference," Harold said, inspecting his glasses and gently bending the frame into semblance of how it had been. They were all wonky, but he managed to put the cracked lens back into it's proper place. "Besides, it doesn't matter to me."

Tom was dissatisfied and urged him to do something about it, fight back, stand up for himself, _something_. Harold did, and before the year was over he stopped coming to school. Rumours his family had moved away. Others whispered that Harold had killed himself. Tom never found out what really happened.

7.

Mr. Jameson lived, for a while, in the small house across the orphanage. He was an old man with a cane and bad back and eyes sharp dark green. He visited the orphanage on his free time much to the delight of the caretakers and told stories to the kids. They were weird stories, most likely made up on the spot, about three kids fighting a troll on a school bathroom and car that became alive when it hit a magical tree and things like that. The kids loved him.

Tom, however, couldn't shake the thought that he had met him before. Several times, in fact. And yet he couldn't put his finger around it, and finally asked the old man if they had met before. "Meeting, Tom, is only a moment in history," the old man said, smiling an odd smile. "Each one of them inconsequential in a way and important in another. There have been moments, and there will be moments."

Then the man told him and the other children about a locket that turned back time and girl who learned _everything_ her school had to teach her by using it.

8.

Tom discovered his abilities mostly by accident, by wishing really hard for something to happen without actually expecting it to. When it did, he was shocked and incredulous and suspicious. So he did it again. And again. He did it differently, he did it faster, slower, this way and that, until he was sure that he was, he truly was, doing it. He was capable of miracles. He was capable of making people and animals do as he wished them to, he was capable of making them forget him, not see him. He was capable of making them feel pain.

People became wary of him and they started to avoid him, they started to whisper behind their hands and giving him looks. They called him weird, odd, freakish, wrong.

"Dangerous, that's what it is," said a repairman, who worked to fix the stove in the orphanage kitchen. H. J. P. Evans said his nametag, and his green eyes looked distantly familiar. His smile was odd. "But some things have to be. Some things _ought_ to be." Tom was fairly certain he wasn't speaking about the gas stove.

9.

The use of his abilities became easier and easier for him the more he used them, and he used them as often as he could. He did little tricks and he played jokes and he punished those orphans and caretakers that crossed him. No more was he given less food than others, no more was he bullied - he had control now, in ways they didn't and never would. He was powerful and nothing frightened him, not even the dark streets of London. And so, he got cocky.

For a little while.

"Little boys shouldn't be wandering in the alleys by themselves like this," the man whispered to his ear, holding a gleaming knife to his throat while rummaging his pockets and taking the few coins Tom had managed to accumulate over the months. Tom was petrified with terror, barely able to breath, unable to utter a word, unable to even try and use his talent, nothing. He couldn't even look at the man, too terrified to move at all, and he only knew the man had black hair because he saw his reflection on the knife for a small moment.

"No, such wanderings aren't wise at all for little boys. They might meet monsters, you know," the man said, chuckling at his stiff posture and patting his shoulder almost gently after he was satisfied that Tom had nothing else in his pockets. "Or, worse yet, become ones themselves."

Tom thought that he'd die or worse; that he'd be left there in the empty alley, broken and dying, but the man only chuckled once more. Then he vanished into the shadows, leaving Tom with empty pockets, a tiny cut on his neck, and very clear proof of his weakness.

10.

And then Tom turned eleven, and Professor Dumbledore came with knowledge in his eyes and fire at his fingers. He was annoying and terrifying at the same time, unmovable and powerful, and unlike every other adult, he wouldn't bend. Tom shivered for hours after the man had left, staring at his wardrobe, that stood even after bursting into flames without any damage at all. Then he went to Diagon Alley by himself, cocky with new knowledge and frightened, because it was _new_ and old at the same time he wasn't unique anymore.

There, he met _him_. _He_ was sitting in Leaky Cauldron, drinking something dark and smoky from a clear goblet, when Tom saw _him_. _He_ fit in perfectly with _his_ dark cloak and there was nothing out of ordinary about _him,_ not at first. But then, without a word, without more than a crooked smirk from the man and the glass risen to a mocking toast, Tom knew. "It's you," he said. "_You_." The boy from the school, Harry who had died, the librarian, the man next door, the plumber, the boy in the street…

"Me," the man agreed, black hair eating the light around it, eyes gleaming green in the firelight. He took a drink, and said nothing more.

"Who are you?" Tom asked, sitting down in his table, needing the answer.

The man smiles without answering. "Do you think my name really explain anything?" he asked instead, amused. "A name doesn't mean a thing, Tom, it's only a label for something and very rarely explains what that something is. What you ought to be asking is _what _I am. Or, more specifically, what I am _to you_."

But when Tom does ask, he doesn't say.

11.

Hogwarts was great and all one could ever ask of a magic school. It had ghosts and moving staircases and paintings that could talk, it had secret passages and classes full of magic and sometimes you could see centaurs in the edge of the forest and merpeople in the shore of the lake. For Tom, however, the school was _power_ and _knowledge_ and _chance_.

And challenge.

The other Slytherin sneered at him and shoved him around, calling him a weak little mudblood, mocking at his lack of family tree, saying he had no place with them. He snarled back and straightened himself and steeled his resolve and would not bend, because he was better than that, he would not _be defeated_. Not by his lack of background or knowledge, not by his classmates nor the teachers, not by Dumbledore, not by anyone.

Except _him_.

"What it all comes down to, is attention," said the green eyed, black haired elder Slytherin that Tom was certain didn't exist in the school records. "You have it or you don't and if you do, it can be positive or it can be negative, but in the end it is only that. And only you decide whether it means anything."

"Recognition and influence is _power_," Tom disagreed. "The only power that matters."

"Hmph. Influence and authority over other people is nothing but one single sect of a multitude of powers," the other said, amused, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "The most powerful person in this world is a witch who has enough magic and enough knowledge to cause the world's destruction as easily as you could set fire on a cottage," he said, and Tom sat up straighter only to have the other laugh. "She lives in deserted, unplottable island alone, and has for centuries now - and no one knows she exists anymore."

Tom didn't know what to say to that and the green eyed elder boy laughed again. "Does her lack of influence, recognition, fame and respect make her any less powerful?" he asked. "Keeping this in mind, is it really _power_ you want? Or acceptance?"

xx

A bit older idea, not by much though. I dunno what was going in my head, it was just this vague, nameless... thing. This is the result, and even I'm not sure exactly what this is. Will probably continue it on some dark murky evening when the music is just right and I have the right sort of stuff to drink. My apologies for grammar errors (and my gratitude for the Latin grammar lessons concerning the last idea)


	7. Draconic Revolution, Creature Harry

Warnings: Creature Harry. Another drabble story with longer drabbles.

**Draconic Revolution**

**1. Ordeal**

Potions accidents in Hogwarts were quite common. Every day someone got potion spilled on them, every other day something worse happened someone grew boils, extra appendages, tentacles, another skin, changed their coloration or height. Once one girl had even accidentally grown herself a third eye. Few students had been shrunken down to their baby forms and few others had aged themselves into near ancient age. One legendary class of sixth year Hufflepuffs had even grown pair of magnificent wings each in result of vaporised potion.

It was nothing out of the ordinary and usually the changes were quite reversible. The ones that weren't - or the rare cases in which the victim did not want change - could be lived with. Professor Flitwick for one had never grown past his small size due to a potions spill when he had been young, and still did quite well for himself despite the accident. Somewhere there was still lived a former Hufflepuff with handsome pair of wings and somewhere a girl, too adjusted to four dimensional world view to part with it, still had her third eye.

Such people were rare but not uncommon to the point of being unnatural, and people in the magical world were quite adjusted to such accidents and their side effects and easily learned to live. The fact that wizards and most magical creatures were odd to begin with helped with the discrimination - it's hard to blame someone for being out of the norm where there was no norm. The ones that did were mostly the ones who found something to blame with anything, or possibly considered such oddities weaknesses. But really, such prejudice was highly unpopular at any case and not something you brought up in polite society.

Potions accidents were _completely_ normal, quite ordinary, Harry mused to himself while trying to figure out which limb went which way and how to move his now considerable bulk without crushing the screaming, running people around him. So really, his classmates were being quite rude.

**2. First**

"Oh, look at that! Quite extraordinary!" one of the Hogwarts professors squeaked excitedly, peering over the crowd. "Incredible, absolutely incredible!"

"Severus, I do hope you know how to reverse, this because help me god and all his forces if you _can't_…!" someone else was growling.

"A _dragon_? How did you manage to turn him into a _dragon_? Really, this is something new! I don't think anyone had ever managed to turn someone into a dragon before… not in our time anyway", another teacher was saying with complete bafflement. "I've heard some ancient curses but those have been lost for ages… What potion were you working on, what were the ingredients, did anyone take them down?"

"Oh, he looks absolutely magnificent! Look at the hide, the wings - oh the tail, it looks marvellous!" someone said eagerly. "I don't think I've ever seen a dragon breed like this one! The hide and the head shape is like that of the Hebridean Blacks, but the tail and the back ridges belong more to Horntails… can't quite place the wings. Mr. Potter, can you spread your wings a little?"

"No, don't! You'll bring the ceiling down on us!" someone hurried to deny. "Mr. Potter, what ever you do, _don't move_!"

It was hard to say who was saying what as the teachers and talked over each other, some of them glaring at Snape and at the assorted gathering of first year Slytherins and Gryffindors, and others peering up at Harry. The students were still glancing and gaping at Harry nervously while Snape seethed silently. Somewhere someone was still trying to inch away from Harry. They were still being so rude. Not that the teachers were any better. Few of them had even pulled out their wands at him.

"Are we sure he is quite safe?"

Harry huffed in annoyance. He had gone through all that trouble to figure out how to sit without falling over - and crushing anyone in the process. They could've shown at least a little bit of appreciation. And they could've shown him some consideration - it was rather uncomfortable, having to bend his head so low to keep hitting the ceiling. Maybe it had something to do with his wings, he thought. He hadn't quite figured out how to tug his wings out of the way yet, though, so some of the students in the front probably felt like they were in a half fallen tent, sitting underneath his wings.

Still, he thought. It could've been worse. He could've gotten his horns stuck to the ceiling.

"Harry, my boy, are you quite alright?" Dumbledore was the first to consider his feelings. After consideration, Harry nodded his large head, making the people below scurry away hurriedly so that he wouldn't hit them with his chin. Dumbledore chuckled. "That's good, very good. My boy, I think you might be first of your kind!" he added in good humour.

"Really? Wicked!" Harry answered, his voice deep and resonating. It was the huff of smoke that he accidentally breathed out which made the students around him run away in a hurry, he told himself, and not the smell of his breath. Probably.

**3. Dragon**

There was a dragon walking in the grounds of Hogwarts, surrounded by crowd of teachers trying to figure out the extend of the dragon's form and abilities and whether or not they could turn it back to the eleven year old boy it had been just few hours previously. The students of the castle had crowded to the windows and arrow holes to witness, whispering to each other and pointing - and some where even snapping pictures of newly transformed Harry Potter.

Ronald Weasley wondered whether or not he should go down there, to be his best friend - because Harry was his best friend, probably, and friends where with each other when accident happened. Except usually accidents did not lead to your friends weighing several towns and having talons as long as your arms, and yaws that could swallow you in one bite. It was _Harry_ and Harry was the most non-violent person he had yet met, but blimey, it was also a dragon and despite his brother's love for the beast, Ron wasn't too certain about them being manageable. Even when they had wizard minds. But still, they were friends, right? Harry had given him chocolate frogs and let him fly with his wicked broom and everything…

Hermione Granger leaned to a window frame, biting her lower lip, thinking about what she had seen Harry Potter. He hadn't seemed like the celebrity she had been looking forward to meeting after reading about him from the books. She knew what muggle celebrities were like - some of them were nice but in some of the papers they were also so stupid and she had been worried that he'd be like that too. Except he hadn't, he had been kind and considerate and shy and rather intelligent too, and she had wanted to be his friend. And now he was a dragon and everyone were afraid of him as if he had turned into a monster or something…

Neville Longbottom fingered his Remembral nervously while watching how the black dragon stretched his massive wings for the teachers to inspect. It was quite the sight, just like he had imagined the dragon from one of his adventures book would look like. Except the dragon had been evil and the hero in the book had had to cast a spell to turn the dragon into stone statue, after which the statue had been shattered… Harry wasn't evil. Neville _knew_ it. Harry had saved his Remembral - _his_! From Malfoy of all people! And for no good reason! Harry was a _hero_, the Boy-Who-Lived! Neville frowned and twiddled with the Remembral, wondering if it was right for heroes to be monsters too.

Fred and George Weasley thought only one thing of the whole ordeal. _Wicked_.

When the teachers had left, five students rushed to the yard to talk with the dragon.

**4. Rage**

"This cannot be tolerated!" the ministry woman yelled, pointing at the black dragon who was happily snoring away in the sunlight, wings spread wide to capture as much of the warmth as possible. "A beast like this in a school full of children, can't you even imagine the danger the children are in! This whole situation puts danger so many of the poor darlings, most of whom will have no hope of defending themselves from such a beast in many years! Think of the _children…_"

The reporters she was speaking to were a little too busy marvelling the creature and the bravery of the _poor defenceless children_ who sitting casually on top of dragon's scaly belly, one of them absently scratching a spot between large scales. One of the reporters, a man with hair like candy floss, had even darted up to sit on the dragon's bent knee to interview the students, excitedly making notes.

"The dragon cannot remain here!" the woman continued angrily, apparently not quite aware of the fact that magical reporters the people she was preaching to were hardly afraid of the dragon. They were used to much worse things, such venturing into dangerous forests to interview centaurs only to be nearly eaten by giant spiders, joining thrill adventures inside hurricanes and tornadoes, making a surveys about giants and on occasion braving even Gringotts for the annual wealth estimations.

"It is putting all the children in danger," the woman continued, raising her fist to the sky. "It is necessary for the dragon tamers to come and take this despicable beast to the nearest dragon sanctuary immediately and make sure that no such occurrence can ever happen again! Hogwarts administration and its teachers must be reviewed and questioned and…"

"What do you mean, it's _Harry Potter_?" the candy floss reported asked excitedly, leaning closer to the brown haired Gryffindor girl who shifted back, looking a bit startled. "Potions accident? Please start from the beginning!"

There was a flash as one of the reports took picture of his colleagues who were now stampeding forward to hear the full tale about the dragon of Hogwarts. The ministry woman in pink drew a breath to yell after them, but the flash had half roused the dragon who shifted, lifted one wing, an dropped it right in front of her.

"Harry Potter Severely Injures a Ministry Worker After Being Turned Into a Dragon By an Potions Accident!" the headlines said in the following morning. "His Transfer To Dragon Wales Dragon Reserve Begins Tomorrow…"

**5. Afraid**

Harry ruffled his wings uncomfortably. He would've been happy to stay at Hogwarts where there had been plenty of open air, and a lake, and a forest and mountains too - perfect place to try and learn how to fly. But the ministry had decided that he would need to go to the reserve where they could figure out how to deal with him and change him back into a human. Which, in Harry's opinion, was _highly_ unnecessary thing to do. After all, as long as he was a dragon, no one would dream of sending him back to the Dursleys.

"That's it, that's a good boy, just go and see what nice grounds we've readied for you, with your own flock of sheep…" one of the dragon tamers was saying at his side, holding an instrument which looked rather like a whip to Harry's eyes. "So be a good fellow, big guy, and don't cause any trouble, will you…?"

"You're rude," Harry said out right, showering the man in his brimstone smoke. Then, while the man coughed and tried to get over the fact that dragon had spoken to him , Harry huffed and marched forward, happy that he had managed to work out how to walk with four feet - and that he now knew how to tug his wings properly so that they didn't drag against the ground. He ignored the so called grounds and looked around for other dragons. According to Ron, Fred and George there would be mostly Common Welsh Greens here, which were rather small dragons, but small dragons were better than no dragons.

"Oh, hello there," Harry greeted the first dragon he saw happily, trotting forward. "I'm new here, though I don't know how long I'm going to be here. My name is Harry. What about you?"

The dragon, only half of his size - were they all this small? - let out a small squeak and fluttered away like a frightened bird. Stupefied, Harry stared after her and sat to his haunches. "How rude," he then said, before looking for another dragon to try and talk with. He wanted to make friends as soon as he could. It wasn't every day you could make friends with dragons after all.

How ever the second and the third dragon also flied away in a hurry when he approached, none of them saying anything. He looked after them with growing exasperation before hissing after them in barely concealed anger. "_What's wrong with you all? I'm only trying to say hi! Impolite bunch the lot of you!_"

One dragon, who had been in hiding, stuck out his head from some bushes. He hesitated, and then spoke. "_I-its not that we're impolite, it's just that, well, you're big, and keep talking like human and all, and we can't really talk human, and…_" he said in nervous stammer, reminding Harry oddly of Neville. "_And - and really, it's your own fault, you should've talked normally from the start, instead of speaking human! What kind of dragon talks human anyway, and _-" the little green dragon suddenly stopped mid-speech, shooting a horrified look at Harry before letting out a frightened yelp and fluttering away as well.

Harry, now even more confused than before, beat the ground with the heavily spiked end of his tail. Were all dragons this easily frightened? They were nothing like he had imagined. And human speak? But the little Welsh Green had spoken English too. What so confusing was there about that? "Dragons are pretty weird," he murmured. But he wasn't a quitter and so with determination braved forward with every intention of making friends. Hopefully ones that did not fly away at the mere sight of him

**6. Cloud**

Flying with broom was pretty okay. It was fun and fast and he could do things he had never dreamed off, like swoops and loops and all sorts of tricks. It was possibly the best thing Harry had experienced in his life, a broom, a flight and nothing but huge drop and sudden stop beneath his feet.

And yet, he found to his utter misery, it was absolutely nothing compared to what it felt like to fly as a dragon. Oh, dragon flight was more taxing with all the wing beating and tail swinging you had to do, and it took a while before he figured out how to hold his hands and legs so that they weren't in the way of his wings or his tail. But once he did, it was incredible. He had never gone so fast with a broom, or so high, or manoeuvred quite as cleverly. On broom he felt like the lightest, fastest thing ever. On dragon wing he felt like flying mountain and it was awesome.

The little Common Welsh Greens, now a little more accustomed to his odd ways of human tongue and ideals and his larger frame, never stopped commenting. He was beating his wings wrong and would only tire himself out, he should beat them like _this_ and keep his tail level, he was only getting it numb. And what on heaven was he doing with his head, he really should try and stop turning it so, the others were getting achy necks by just looking at him.

Harry didn't much care. He flew hard and fast and high and exactly however he chose, thank you very much. With the standard charm collar - which had notice-me-not-charms and flame-freezing-charms and stuff like that to make him safer - on it was fine as long as he didn't go too far. And he had spend whole ten years doing what other people wanted him to, he was not going to let his one chance of being a dragon be like afternoon in the Dursley house.

He plunged into the white masses of water vapour with happy whoop and as he came out of them sobbing wet, he decided that _this_ was the happiest he had ever been.

xx

Written because I have a great big thing for dragons - never finished because couldn't think of a plot and there were other dragon stories I could write. Still, I like this one. One of my rare few attemps at "charming". My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	8. In the quiet, Temeraire x HP cross

Warnings: none really. Vague Temeraire x Harry Potter crossover, in drabbles.

**In the quiet**

1.

The boy, black haired and pale and no older than fifteen, stood beside the giant of a dragon, looking utterly bewildered as the taller aviator captain demanded answers from him. Laurence felt a fleeting sympathy towards the boy, wondering what the he had done, but couldn't stop to see or ask. He had been called to the admiral office, so he hurried ahead until the voice of the aviator faded back. Soon he forgot the boy entirely.

2.

He saw the black haired boy again, sitting on the wall of the small London covert. The boy was holding something in his hand, an orange ball which he was squeezing absently. He still looked lost, Laurence thought. But Laurence was already late from a dinner party with his parents and their friends, so he only offered boy a faint nod and headed on, not noticing that the boy stared after him as he went.

3.

In the heat of the battle it was hard to keep track of anything, but Laurence kept his eyes trained on the French dragon, circling above Reliant, well out of the reach of gunfire. It was going to drop bombs, he knew, and the ship would be completely unprotected, with no weapons able to reach the beast and no dragons of their side to cover them. He prepared for the worse, got ready to issue the orders for the men to get the longboats down, when a roar called over the waves.

A large dragon was rushing towards them, and as it drew nearer the much smaller French beast turned and fled. Later, hearing that the big dragon had only seen them because it had steered off from its usual patrol course, Laurence thought what a near miss had been.

4.

The black haired boy sat in one of the benches outside the admiral's office, looking small in his bottle green coat. Laurence, also waiting, tried not to stare at the silent boy who looked worn and weary, and like he would soon fall asleep where he sat. The navy captain wondered if he was an ensign, before seeing the single golden bar on his shoulders. A captain, then, he realised and felt an odd sensation of dismay at the thought. He hadn't known dragon captains could be so young.

But Laurence was a gentleman and did not say a thing - not even when the boy dosed of lightly in his chair, and had to be roused for his meeting with the admiral.

5.

"I will not have it, you hear? Just because the boy does not complain does not mean you can run him and his beast ragged. No, I will have no further word of it," said a stern female voice Laurence was trying not to over hear. "Further to the point, you will find him a new first officer, or I will. I will not see a crew shoving their captain around, regardless of the captain's lack of objections. No, I assure you, it is _you_ who does not know who he's dealing with."

6.

Laurence saw the boy in passing whilst walking through the London market. The boy was holding a set of plates made of cheap sort of metal that shone bronze in the sunlight. He looked like he was going to buy them. The navy captain didn't think much of the plates themselves, but instead mused about how much better the boy looked when he wasn't so tired and was smiling.

7.

It had been a long time since he had set his foot on land and that was probably where the sentimentality was coming from. Still, Laurence couldn't help but think of beautiful the city looked in autumn, with the trees all hued with orange and gold.

He didn't seem to be the only one thinking so. A black haired boy, who looked rather familiar, was collecting the leaves from the street side. Laurence noticed he was picking the brightest and most colourful ones of the lot.

8.

"Look at the blighter," a man muttered not far from Laurence, nudging the man at his side and the nodding towards the young dark haired captain, standing silently while his first officer talked to another captain. "What do you suppose he did to get a captain's rank so young?"

"He's a pretty little bugger. Probably -"

That was as far as Laurence was about to let them. "Gentleman, I will have you know that should you feel the urge to continue in such a manner, you can collect your things and be on your way. The Reliant has no room for such talk," he said sternly.

The men fell quiet and hurried away. Laurence shook his head and went back to his duties, not noticing the boy looking after him with a thoughtful expression.

9.

"Have you known many aviators?" Temeraire asked softly, half asleep on the deck.

"Not many, my dear, I've only met few in passing and even then our discussions were brief," Laurence said softly, and instead of thinking of the few aviators he had med and talked with personally, he thought back to the black haired boy whom he had seen many times, and never spoken to. He didn't even know the boy's name. "In that aspect, I fear our future in the Aerial Corps will be as much of a learning experience to me as it will be for you."

10.

"Oh, you've heard of him?" Berkley snorted, reaching for the tea pot. "Bit of a legend, that little brat. Somehow harnessed the biggest feral you've ever seen."

"Somehow?" Laurence asked, a bit confused.

"Hm, somehow. No one knows how. He just appeared one day with the dragon on tow - and make no mistake, she an old thing, that dragon," the thickset man said, shaking his head. "No one knows how he did it. And he won't say, of course."

"What do you mean?" Laurence asked.

"Never spoken a word," Berkley said. "We don't even know his name. We call him Black and the dragon Ugly. He seems fine with it, has never argued against it."

11.

Ugly was very worthy of her name, Laurence mused as the heavy weight dragon helped land injured Victoriatus to the Loch Laggan courtyard. Bigger than Maximus, coloured with mismatched blotches of bloody copper and covered with savage looking spikes - not to mention about the extensive scarring - she was easily one of the most impressive dragons Laurence had ever seen.

The dragon's captain, though a little older than the last time Laurence had caught a glimpse of him, looked small and fragile where he was, sitting in the base of the dragon's neck among the sharp horns and spikes. With his crew milling about, under the orders of the roaring voice of his first lieutenant the silent youth looked oddly alone.

12.

It was obvious from the first few moments that it was the first lieutenant who was the commander of Ugly's crew. The captain made no suggestions, gave no orders, did nothing, only sat by his dragon and together they kept silent vigil, the boy and his beast. The crew took care of him, Laurence noticed with some relief, like he was a child or some extension of the dragon and part of their duty, but he held no authority over them and they felt no respect for him.

The boy didn't seem to mind - didn't seem to think anything at all - but watching him made Laurence feel oddly guilty. It was not how he felt a dragon and his captain should be, nor how their crew should work. But… if the boy was a mute and most likely slow minded…

The excuse felt hollow even to him.

13.

"Have you been in many battles?" Temeraire was asking from Ugly later, when Laurence happened by. "You have so many scars, even more than Messoria."

The old dragon looked at him slowly, blinking her eyes even slower. She didn't answer.

The dragon was as much of a mute as her captain.

14.

"Never mind him," the first lieutenant of Ugly's crew said to Laurence who continued to stare out and to the rain, where Black stood silent and still under the heavy pour. "That's normal for him. It's easiest to leave him be - it keeps Ugly from acting up."

Laurence could not on good conscience leave the youth there, however, and instead picked up a pair of thick, rain proof coats and after pulling one of them on he headed to the rain. When he laid the other coat onto the young captain's shoulder, the boy looked up, startled.

Laurence felt rather startled himself, as he was caught in the eerie stare of the most brilliant green eyes he had ever seen.

15.

Black wasn't a half wit, Laurence felt certain in this knowledge the longer he watched the young captain. It wasn't a secret - the youth's crew knew it as well, as they had to relay orders to him to get Ugly to do what they wanted. But Laurence wasn't certain if they understood the true extend of the young man's intelligence.

It was in the way he watched people and dragons, how he memorised new manoeuvres Celeritas spoke of and then had Ugly perform them easily. It was in the way he looked over the harness and checked his crew - it happened only once within Laurence's vision, but once was enough as he watched the boy stare down a young midwingman until the man realised that his harness was latched on wrong. Most of all, it was in the way the boy looked after his dragon.

It was also in the way he looked over the complicated calculations Laurence drew into the sand for Temeraire's benefit while explaining a part of _Principia Mathematica_ and shook his head in silent disapproval, making Laurence realise he had made an error in his writing - error which he himself would've never noticed.

16.

Neither Black nor Ugly batted an eye when Choiseul was executed, and merely stood as silent guard over Preacursoris. Later, however, Laurence could see the young man curled on Ugly's forearm, shaking silently before the big dragon covered him with her wing, and hid his distraught from the world.

xx

I wrote this before "Little after dark" and "Flying again". The idea was a bit vague, something along the lines of Harry and the Hungarian Horntail he faced off against in the Triwizard tournament ending up in alternate history with some weird... magical muteness-causing... bond. I have no idea, can't remember any more. My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	9. Heart of Time, in which Harry gets power

Warnings: none. Strongly inspired by Doctor Who but not exactly a crossover. Sort of Super-Harry Story.

**Heart of time**

Fawkes had lived many lives, some of them long, some of them short and some of them, the most interesting ones, entwined and twisted among the others. That was the brilliance of being a phoenix, the utter complete _magnificent_ freedom. For a phoenix there were absolutely no limits. Space, time, life, it was all just another path to take and nothing, absolutely nothing was linear. He could jump from end of one life to the start of another, and not just in sense of burning.

The only reason humans had ever figured out time travel was because the phoenixes had done it first. They had done it always, from the very beginning and to the very end. No ends, no beginnings. Just a never ending circle, a ball, with pathways in and out and through… shifting and changing.

In his many lives Fawkes had had many "masters". Some of them, like his precious young Albus, had understood the relationship between a phoenix and his master completely. Albus knew how fleeting it was, knew that whilst he could live for hundred or two hundred years, Fawkes would live forever - and that he could experience that forever in the very same time when Albus himself linearly trotted along his two hundred years of life. And Albus knew that at any given time, things could change and Fawkes could leave, never to return.

Not all of his masters had understood that. Some had tried to keep him, own him. They had tried to shackle his talons and enclose him in cages. They had tried to keep him from going, from flying, from teleporting, from travelling. They had tried to enchant him so that when they'd die, so would he. They had been selfish. Very human and very selfish.

Fawkes had never minded that, though. Humans were what they were, he had never had any illusions of that, no phoenix did. And even if his masters had been horribly greedy, horribly selfish, he had loved them all. And after they were gone he had sought a new master to enjoy a new life with.

But life was long and vast and Fawkes couldn't live a linear life sitting still. Phoenixes came and went, up and down, back and forth, they flew, teleported and regenerated and nothing held them back. When he had that burning in his veins, in his very _being_, how could he stay so still for such a long time? No, he wanted to see more, always wanted to see more. That's why even when serving a master, he was always free, master of his own life and time and space.

Albus, bless him, understood that. He had understood that from the moment they had met and Fawkes had sat to his shoulder like he owned it. He had always known that Fawkes could vanish in a burst of flames to never return and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Only Fawkes could stop himself, nothing else ever held him.

In his long years of flying and burning and teleporting, Fawkes had seen so many people, so many creatures, too many to count, so many that counting them would be belittling them. And he couldn't belittle life, every life was unique and precious and wonderful. Brilliant. Even if the people themselves didn't think that, that was how it was.

And yet very rarely had Fawkes seen a life so unfortunate as the one fading before his eyes. He had seen many horrible lives, many tragic and painful ones, but to be so unfortunate was different. Unfortunate life. There was no ways of putting it into right words and Fawkes knew many, many words.

This child had done nothing to deserve it, but then again, no one really did deserve the lives they got. Tragic lives happen to so many good people while so many bad people got magnificent lives. That's how it is. But this one, so fragile and still smiling, dying and still sprouting out honest praises, saving lives without being asked to and dying for it… it was different.

Harry Potter, holding his bleeding, poisoned arm, sitting weakly next to a defeated basilisk and a dying little girl.

Fawkes had always known where this could lead, how it could end up - how it will end up in endless strands of time which develop into their own perfect universes. The boy might survive and live to fight another day. And there will be another fight, one which he might survive and live again to fight another fight. On and on, endlessly until death, fighting, fighting, fighting always at the very brink of life.

Why? The boy had fight in him, that's easily enough seen. Defiance and strength and willingness to stand up after millions of things had knocked him down - but whose choice was it, really? Who chooses that a twelve year old has to fight these fights? Age meant nothing to Fawkes but this… wasn't quite right. If the boy was old enough to fight these battles then he should be old enough to make a decision for himself.

But no one had asked. No one would ever ask.

Do you want to fight, Harry? Fawkes would've asked it if he had had a human voice or telepathic abilities, anything. He was honestly curious of this unfortunate life before him. Had the boy wanted to fight the basilisk, face the spectre of days long gone, try and save the little girl… or had it just happened, events leading into another, trail of breadcrumbs leading the boy into the fight?

"Fawkes," the boy gasped out thickly. "You were brilliant, Fawkes…"

Fawkes knew how it must've felt. He had seen people dying in so many ways that this is nothing he hadn't seen before. Poison spreading through the boy's body, hot white pain and darkness slowly coming. And Fawkes knew that he could heal the boy. It would've been easy too, he certainly had enough sorrow in him to cry a few healing tears. But it seemed pointless.

Time wasn't linear and he could see it. Fawkes could see how in year's time there would be another fight. And if the boy would survive that, the year after that there would be another, even more dangerous one. And if he managed to live through that one somehow, and Fawkes rather doubted he would, yet again in a year after that there would be another battle, this one more dangerous and more damaging. And year after that…

Always at the brink of annihilation and Fawkes could see it all. The victories and the deaths. The boy could die in so many times that it was making the phoenix's head feel heavy. The chances of the boy living to see his eighteenth birthday were so small - possible but unlikely.

So what was the point in saving him here and now? Little more time to live until the next threat would come and sweep over him like breath of fire. And the boy would get burned. He already had, many, many times and many, many ways. And it would only continue and get worse with the years to come. Was it really worth it to save him for a future like that?

x

Harry blinked, vainly squeezing the wounded arm where his blood was flowing. His eyesight was fading and it felt like his veins were aflame. Odd, he thought, blinking slowly again as he stared at the phoenix before him. All the ways he had imagined he'd die - and for a twelve year old he had came up with strangely many scenarios - this wasn't one of them. Well, not until few hours ago anyway. Bitten by a giant poisonous snake with deadly gaze, who died like that?

"You're dead, Harry Potter," the spectre of Tom Riddle jeered as if he didn't know it already. The almost corporeal ghost was leaning over him, eyes wide with anticipation. "By my hand. And I'm going to sit here and watch, Harry Potter, as you die. Take your time… there's no hurry."

Harry would've glared at him had he had the strength, but the fire in his veins was burning out everything. He felt faintly ill and dizzy but he didn't have the energy to get actually nauseous. That was somewhat relieving, though. It would've been embarrassing to die like that, throwing up.

Well, at least he had defeated the darned snake. Turning his eyes from the phoenix, Harry glanced at Tom Riddle's shoes. If only he could make sure that the spectre wouldn't grow any stronger before he died. The notion of dying at the same time when Voldemort's teenage self became alive wasn't too enjoyable. Especially since the ghost was draining poor Ginny's life to do it.

The ghost which was now more than a ghost was still talking - about Harry's mudblood mother and how he was about to join her. Harry's hearing was fading and when he stopped being able to make out the words he was almost relieved. He didn't want to listen.

He more felt than saw or heard how Fawkes took flight beside him. The fiery feathers of the phoenix graced against his shoulders and the breath of air stirred by the powerful beat of the wings stroked his hair. Then the bird had left his side. Tom Riddle laughed, wide grin on his face, mocking him. Harry could almost read the words from his lips. "See, even the bird doesn't want to bother with you anymore!"

Maybe he was right. Maybe not. Harry didn't have the energy to care at that moment. Hopefully Fawkes would fly away, to Dumbledore, and would let the old man know what had happened. Hopefully Dumbledore would be in time to stop Riddle…

He almost jumped when something fell right in front of him. He and Riddle both stared at it for a moment, at the diary. The pain was unimaginable now and all Harry could hear was the mad, desperate beat of his heart. His eyes were growing darker and darker. He was about to die.

Without thinking anything other than the fact that this would be his last chance to do anything, Harry glanced away from the diary long enough to grab the fang that had pierced his arm. Riddle managed to take one hasty step forward and cry out wordlessly before Harry brought the fang down to the diary in desperate stab, plunging it right to the heart of the book.

He could hear the scream, piercing wail of agony, before Riddle started to break apart. Ink spurted out of the diary much like black blood out of a bleeding wound and Harry felt vague sensation of irony at the thought that they were both killed and bleeding because of the same basilisk's fang. Riddle was dying faster than he was, though, writhing in agony, screaming… before suddenly just vanishing as if he had never been. He probably hadn't had enough time to appreciate the irony.

Harry lost all the strength he had left just then and like puppet with its strings cut, he fell to the floor, sprawled on his side just beside the ink stained diary. Everything inside him was burning and twisting his agony - it felt like his eyes were burning too.

"Fawkes," he whispered weakly as the phoenix landed beside him. He wasn't sure if he had actually made any sound, though. All he could hear was his heart. It was growing slower. "T-thanks," he still said, smiling gently. "Voldemort won't rise today… thanks to you… good work…"

The phoenix edged closer and bowered its head. The bird stared into Harry's eyes with his own, warm eyes before nudging Harry's forehead with his beak, turning it so that Harry was facing the ceiling. Harry had no longer any strength to do anything but stare as the bird edged closer, almost as if to give him a kiss.

There was a flash of golden light and for a moment Harry thought that he must've finally gone blind. He breathed in what he thought would be his last breath. But instead of breathing in air, he breathed something else, filling his lungs with what felt like sunlight. The inhale was followed by a gasp and convulsion and suddenly Harry forgot everything about pain and dying and even living. His mind was flooded with light and warmth and fire and thoughts which weren't his own.

_ Why should he save the boy when there was so much more he could do?_

_ He could make sure that the near death situations would never get near death, that the boy would be armed against them with the insurance that he would live through them. He could give the boy the knowledge and ability to survive. It had never been done before but he was older than time itself as he had seen it several times already - he knew he could do it. In some universes, some strands of time, he had already done it. He could do it now._

Harry gasped, his eyes wide open and blind to everything. His mind was suddenly enormous, as vast as the sky itself, and it was full of thought and memory and knowledge and by Merlin, he could _feel_ things he had thought impossible to perceive! And like an echo, he could still _remember_ the thoughts which he hadn't ever thought. It was like remembering someone else's mind.

The other mind didn't know everything. The other mind didn't know how he would react to it. To know the future and the past and the present all the time, feeling the very world turn under him and how it hurled through space - to feel the moon as a tiny nagging pull in the back of his mind every single waking moment. How would he react to immortality, to flying and burning and teleporting and regenerating endlessly, limitlessly, forever. Would he want it?

Harry groaned, lifting his hands to cradle his head. His mind felt too big for it, too old, too full. It didn't hurt but it felt like he was being stretched at the seams, spread wider and wider, wider than his body actually was. It felt like his very brain was bigger than the entire Chamber of Secrets, bigger than Hogwarts. He could remember things he had never witnessed and he knew things he had never learned - and still the other mind, the other train of thought, continued.

All humans wanted immortality, it thought. None of them understood what it was like, though. The other mind did, but he wasn't a human and he had a different perspective to it. He had seem millions of people die and he had mourned them all, but without pain. Humans felt pain in ways he couldn't even imagine. And what could an immortal human feel?

The fire in his veins felt different now. It felt purifying, beautiful, glowing like sunlight. He could hear his heart again, it was getting faster, stronger… and then, with a jolt, he heard another. _Thumpthump-thump-thump. Thumpthump-thump-thump_. Like two separate hearts, beating little out of synch.

Would the boy be able to handle it, did he have the right sort of mind to brace life and death like a phoenix, like an immortal, like a lord of time?

Harry froze, his mouth open in silent gasp or scream as he remembered how Fawkes had decided to test it. Not much time, the boy was dying. Get the journal, it wasn't far away. Drop it down. See what he does with it. He would feel Fawkes's triumph when Harry had taken the basilisk's fang and used his last strength to destroy it.

Burning tears ran down Harry's face as he realised that Fawkes would've allowed him to die. He had had the ability to heal Harry, but he would've let him die. It would've been kinder to him, to let him die here. Before happiness which turns to horror, before family and it's loss, before love and grief of losing it. Merciful to let him die now, before all of that.

Unless the boy had what it took to be immortal.

Because as an immortal, he would be armed against the future better than as mortal. Things could go _right_ this way. The future would shift and it wouldn't be so linearly dark. No, now it would be winded and beautiful, complicated and bright. Right. If the boy had what it took, then this was right. Either this or death.

The test was crude, simple, but good enough.

Harry gasped. He could hear someone moving near by - Ginny who was stirring - but he didn't have the energy, mental or physical, to get up. He could remember so many things, civilisations long gone and some which hadn't been even build yet. He had seen them all, he had been there when Rome had been build and he had seen the fall of the first united Earth far in the future. He had seen the birth of Earth and he had been there to say good bye when it had burned in the fires of expanding sun.

He couldn't help it. Just as Ginny edged closer, calling his name, Harry stared to sob with confusion. He remembered so many things, so many places and people and events. He had lost so many loved ones, seen so many births, so many incredible events. No, it hadn't been him. It had been Fawkes - and in the same time it hadn't been. Some of that stuff hadn't happened yet - but it would, in time. Fawkes hadn't been there when the Earth had burned - it hadn't burned yet - but Harry would be there to see it. Several billion years, he would be there to see it…

"Harry? Harry!" Ginny was calling him.

"G-Ginny," the boy/phoenix gasped, knocking his glasses off his face and pressing his hands to his burning eyes. He could feel the roll of the Earth, it's mad, perfect rotation. He could feel the wind of the space, of the sun, of the entire galaxy as the Earth travelled through it at incredible speed. And the moon, like a little magnet, was tugging on everything, rolling the waters of the Earth by it's presence. It was too much, way too much. "M-my head…!"

"What's wrong? Harry!" Ginny was helping him sit up. She was looking around wildly. "W-where's Riddle? The last thing I r-remember he was here, he came out of the diary… Oh, Harry, I tried to tell you at b-breakfast, but…"

Harry barely heard her at all, too busy trying not to remember, to not think. The spin of the earth under him was driving him mad. Why could he feel it? He could feel the other planets too, and the asteroids and the belts - he could even feel the closest stars. It was driving him mad. Time and space and memories were piling in his mind until he couldn't tell what was happening and what wasn't. He could feel Ginny's breath, it was like the wind of a distant world on his face and her body warmth was the warmth of a sun in another galaxy. And all around them the universe expanded. Just like his mind.

And all of sudden, all of it made sense. With a sharp inhale, Harry grew still and opened his eyes. The chaotic knowledge and ability to sense time and space suddenly clicked inside him to it's right place and stopped being so overwhelming. It was like pieces falling to their appointed slots. The Earth rotated, just like it was supposed to, at thousand miles per hour. It orbited around the sun, just like it was supposed to, at sixty seven thousand miles per hour. And both of them hurled through the space, orbiting the massive black hole in the centre of the galaxy. Just like every other star in the Milky Way .

"Oh…" Harry whispered in wonder. The entire universe was in motion. And he could _feel it_. "It's… magnificent…"

"What is? H-Harry? Are you alright?" Ginny asked, near tears now.

"I'm… fine," Harry answered, turning his eyes to her. For a moment he almost asked if she could feel it too, but immediately afterwards he could tell she didn't. He'd be able to feel it if she had. "Are you?" he asked instead even though he wasn't sure if it even mattered. He could feel the universe! And she was only one human among six billion, only one witch among seven hundred thousand.

"I-I… W-what happened to Riddle, Harry?" she asked instead of answered, looking at him like she was little afraid of him.

"He's… ah, yes, he, the diary… I stabbed the diary. He's dead. Right," Harry said, swiftly standing up. He felt incredible. Not just because of the changes to his mind, but his body felt incredible. "This is fantastic," he murmured, eying his hands almost as if able to see the change underneath.

"Fantastic…? I'm going to be expelled and you think it's fantastic?" Ginny asked with disbelief, tears raising to her eyes. "I-I've looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and now I have to leave - and you think it's fantastic? Oh, Merlin, what will mum and dad say…?"

Harry frowned and glanced at her. Expelled? Oh, right, Hogwarts. And Riddle. The Basilisk, it had petrified people. And Ginny had been holding onto the diary, Tom Riddle had used the diary to control Ginny who in turn had controlled the basilisk…

He shook his head. Trying to fit his train of thought back to the earlier tracks was _hard_. Such small concerns, so hard to relate to now. But he tried, shaking his head again. What had he been doing and thinking before…? "Oh, yes, that's right," he murmured and grabbed the book and the fang from the floor, stuffing them to his pocket before taking the Sorting Hat and the sword. He eyed the weapon for a moment before snorting and stuffing the blood stained item back into the hat.

"Come on, Ginny," he said, taking the girl's arm and hoisting her up. "Let's get out of here. Ron should be waiting for us in the tunnel. Come on, it's alright."

It took conscious effort not to slip back into the feeling and sensing and remembering and thinking. It was so _easy_ all that, the vastness of his mind and all it could sense, as easy as breathing and walking - easier even. It was hard not to do it. Even while dragging Ginny out of the chamber and to the tunnels, the overwhelming sensation of everything was there, trying to drag his mind away.

"Ron!" he remembered when they, after some minutes of walking, over two hundred miles of rotation, and some sixteen thousand and seven hundred miles worth of Earth's orbit around the Sun, arrived to the point where he had left his friend. He had forgotten that Ron even existed - good thing he remembered, it could've been awkward otherwise. "I've… I've got Ginny!" he called remembering vaguely her to be the reason for their presence there. "She's okay!"

He got a wordless cheer for an answer and after a moment, few more miles, they went around a bent in the tunnel to see a mount of rocks. Harry blinked in realisation as the collapse of the tunnel came back to him. Ron had apparently managed to make a gap in it. Good for him. And them. Harry frowned. It was getting harder to concentrate. He kept remembering things he hadn't even realised he had forgotten. He needed to get his head straight.

"Ginny!" the redhead called, reaching his arm through the hole. "You're alive! I can't believe it! What happened?"

"Never mind that now," Harry said, pushing Ginny forward and through the gap Ron had made. "Let's just get out of here. We can talk about it all later. Go on."

Ginny and Ron clasped hands while the elder of the two Weasleys gave Harry an odd look. Harry ignored it in favour of remembering who Lockhart was and wondering why the man didn't seem to know him. "What happened to him?" Harry asked blinking slowly. Something was odd about the man in comparison to how Harry remembered him to be before. "Did he hit his head?"

"The memory charm backfired - he hit himself when he tried to hit us," Ron answered. "Harry, are you alright? You look a bit…"

"I'm fine," Harry said and smothered the urge to laugh. Self-obliviation. Memory alteration. Harry stopped himself from smiling at the irony of the teacher blasting his own memories from existence just little before the student gained more memories than he would've ever been able to accumulate otherwise.

"Hello," the teacher smiled up to him in good humour. "Odd place, this, isn't it? Do you live here?"

"For a while one day," Harry answered and grinned while taking the man's arm and pulling him up. Then he turned to Ginny and Ron who were still giving him odd looks. "Give me your hands," he said, offering his left hand to the two while keeping his right one around Lockhart's arm.

"Why?" Ron frowned.

Harry sighed. He could've given lengthy explanation about what he planned, how it was possible, how it was possible that _he_ was capable of it. But trying to explain the quirks of fire teleportation would've meant explaining the basics of magic itself as well as plenty of theory about alternate dimensions and how it was possible to skip from one to another through magical combustion… it really would've taken too long, hours if not days.

"Just give me your hands. Come on," he just said and after moment of confused hesitation they did, both grasping hold of his fingers with odd looks about their face. Harry sighed. "Ginny, grab my wrist," he said while wrapping his fingers around Ron's wrist.

Then, once the girl had taken hold of his wrist, he expelled magic in way only a phoenix knew how, and burst to flames. Ron let out a small scream while Ginny shrilled out a shocked yelp, and with wave of fire the cave vanished from around them.

x

The thing's I've tried to write over the months... I have no explanations for this one. Not really. Now, what shall I post next, a weird Naruto Crossover, Post Hallow's story with Snape which isn't all that interesting, some very bad Sentinel crossover, badly fragmented "Best Laid Plans" follow up, weird Voldemort and Harry as twins story, the whole horrible Bloody Magic file, somewhat confusing Mushishi crossover... decisions decisions. My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	10. Bloody Hell, Harry and Voldy as twins

Warnings: darkish, with insane and abusive Harry and lot of confusing babytalk. Also a toddler!Voldemort

**Bloody Hell  
**

There was a silent bundle of cloth sitting in the front steps of the house number four in Privet Drive street. Had it been day time, someone would've noticed, pointed it out, investigated it and then possibly lapsed into horror and panic at the discovery of the nature of the bundle - and what was inside it. However, it was the night and even if someone had been up and about, they doubtfully would've seen the babe due to the darkness of the street - not unless they had been specifically looking for him, and baby on a door steps isn't really something one keeps an eye out for.

Not much earlier, the only people who would've, who _knew_ about the babe, had left - even the witch with the ability to morph into a cat had gone, despite keeping strict vigil over the house thorough the previous day. One might've considered this foolish and even reckless, leaving a child alone to the night without a single guardian. The baby, however, was more or less content with this arrangement. There was no more noise and he was sleeping, safely nestled in a blanket that surrounded him in warmth, both due to the high quality of the fabric and several warming and protection spells laid in the seams. Perfectly at peace with the world, and ready start his new live with his relatives that was arranged for him.

Had he not been sleeping, he might've seen the end of his life coming. Had there been a single watcher near by, they might've prevented it. Had there been different sort of protections on the blanket, he might've been secured. But there were none, the baby kept on sleeping, and no one saw it.

People still miraculously awake in the neighbourhood contributed the sudden rattling of their rooftops to a gust of wind and ignored it. The flash of light was, to them, probably a passing car or power surge in the street lamps. Nothing to worry about. And so no one noticed the spiralling breach that tore open the night sky just upon the house number four, ripping in the blanket of stars for a moment just long enough to drop something into the neighbourhood. It closed itself soon afterwards, unseen and unnoticed by all but the black butterfly that now descended towards the house, lazily beating it's dark wings as it floated closer and closer to the house, the front steps - the baby.

Gentle like falling flower petal, the butterfly fell to the child's forehead. As it spread it's wings, it for a moment covered the reddened lightning bolt scar with green pattern in it's right wing, which was almost an exact copy of the scar. Then it pulled it's wings up again, and without a sound and without a further motion, turned transparent and sunk into the child's forehead, fading into the pale skin.

In that moment, Harry Potter died, falling completely still in the cocoon of his blankets. Elsewhere, the warning instruments in Headmaster Dumbledore's office screamed, and a notice took flight in the Ministry of Magic, rushing towards the minister's office to warn about what had happened. Had there been anyone present, panic would've broken out, and people would've rushed to see what had happened. However, Headmaster Dumbledore was out celebrating the end of the war, and the only worker who would've seen the notice in the Ministry was asleep at his desk.

Then, as the baby suddenly inhaled again, the instruments at Hogwarts fell silent once more and the letter in the ministry busted into flames and vanished. The baby let out a discontent noise, stretching his arms and legs uncomfortably and sighing, opening his green eyes and blinking, unseeing. He twisted and writhed in the blankets, unadjusted to such tiny, useless body, uncomfortable with it's clumsiness, trying to get the feel to how it worked. After a moment of awkward movement, he grew still again, uncomfortable and annoyed, but satisfied.

Had anyone seen, the gleam of the green eyes might've frightened them - the intelligence and the odd colour maybe warning them off. The eyes, formerly particular shade of emerald green, now gleamed in the darkness in violent acidic green that seemed to almost boil around the dark pupil. But there was no one to see the boy or his eyes or how he closed them in concentration.

The boy's scream of pain might've woken someone, but they only fell asleep again as he forced himself silent, biting his lip as strong as he could to smother his urge to wail. And thus another miracle that night went unnoticed and unseen as the boy twisted and panted in pain - and split in two, forced so by will so strong than even the magic of infant was forced to obey. Suddenly, unknown by all, there were two babies nestled in the protective blankets, two perfectly matching children, both with messy dark hair and pale face and fresh lightning bolt scar on their forehead, both wearing the same night clothes, both having the same green eyes.

Except one baby's eyes gleamed with knowledge and experience whilst the other, blinking and writhing with the lingering pain, showed only incomprehension and confusion, staring at the other baby blindly as the other made a satisfied sound.

Elsewhere the magical world kept on celebrating the end of their war, and they wouldn't for years know about the twin Harry Potters - neither of whom was the Boy-Who-Lived they worshipped.

x

Petunia's scream woke the whole house - which meant that it woke still lightly dozing Vernon who had just hit the snooze button and had intended to sleep another ten minutes before getting up. Dudley was already awake, sitting on the living room couch in moment of rare quiet as he watched the cartoons. He didn't pay much attention to the scream, though, because the bunny rabbit in the telly was much more interesting.

Vernon, however, came down in a hurry, afraid that she had noticed a burglary and that their telly was gone, or that there was a broken window, or that there was a water leak - that the electricity was out and she couldn't cook the breakfast. He did not expect to see her leaning into the wall in the front hall like she was trying to get inside it.

"What the bloody hell -" he started and then stopped at the sight of two toddlers at the open door, one of them sitting and staring up at him seriously with strangest eyes he had ever had the displeasure of seeing, other lying on it's back like a upturned turtle, writhing. "What the bloody hell?" Vernon demanded to know again, this time with more vigour.

"V-Vernon," Petunia said - or gasped - while pointing something in the floor. It was an odd, yellowed envelope which on closer inspection looked like - and was - sealed with _wax_. Vernon blinked and didn't quite understand what he was seeing before his wife spoke again. "I-it's parchment. _T-they_ use parchment."

Vernon's mind went blank for a moment before frown came upon it. He looked at the letter, then at the two toddlers, took a closer look at the one who was staring at him, and then came to the uneasy conclusion that the brat looked rather like his wife's sister's annoying husband who had almost ruined their wedding's reception. Curse came to his lips as he remembered the strangeness from the previous day, and then he marched forward and grabbed the letter, tearing it open, determined to get to the bottom of this as quick as he could so that he could figure out how to deal with it.

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley," the letter started. "I have the sorrowful duty to inform you that Mrs. Dursley's sister, Lily Potter, and her husband, James Potter, have passed away…" and so it went into explanation about some dark lunatic who had killed them with magic and all sort of nonsense the freak-folk surrounded themselves in. Then it came to the part about the babies. "As the Harry James Potter's only living blood relative it is now your duty to look after him," the letter assumed, then explaining about duties and honours and some bollocks about blood magic whatever that was and about how the boy would be celebrated in his world and so forth.

Vernon frowned at the letter for a moment and then looked at the black haired brats again. Although he wanted to rip the letter and shove it up the ass of whoever had written it - how dare they assume what was the Dursleys' family duty, the bastards - his mind had latched onto one odd thing about the letter. It spoke of _a_ boy, _a_ Harry Potter. Not twins.

"Your sister only had one kid, right?" Vernon asked, handing the letter to his now slightly more calm wife.

"As far as I know, yes," she answered taking the letter and trying to read through it, but her gasping of, "Lily is dead?" and wincing of, "What?" and hissing even greater, "_What_?" at certain parts too much for a decent read. "How dare they? How _dare_ they?" she spat at the end.

Vernon snorted in agreement and folded his arms at the babies in the front steps. The serious, creepy-stare one had grabbed hold of the other one and was now dragging him into seated position as well, giving Vernon a better look at the pair of them. They were obviously identical. Actually, they were _perfectly_ identical, down to the scar on their forehead. "You think your sister and her husband were so stupid that they somehow mistook twins for single brat?" he asked, trying to figure it out.

Petunia considered it and then shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably. "She said magical people can do some weird stuff," she said uneasily. "It could be that she did only have one boy but he multiplied."

Vernon bristled at that. "People don't just multiply!" he snapped.

"I know, honey, trust me, I know," Petunia answered with a huff, and then realised something. "We need to get them inside! What if the neighbours will see them?" she gasped, and hurried to grab the twin brats from the steps, hoisting one against her left and other against her right shoulder and kicking the blanket inside as well before with a particularly tricky ballet move kicking the door shut behind her.

"What ever the brats are, best not to let people see them," she said, seemingly getting some strength of will from the threat of gossip, as she strode towards the living room with the toddlers on her arms, one of the silent and another squirming uncomfortably. "We need to figure out what we will do with them," she added, and dropped the kids into a cushioned armchair

"Well, we can't keep them obviously. I don't want their sort in my house," Vernon snarled, remembering his wedding and feeling a unfathomable urge to find where the Potters would be buried so that he could take a leak on James Potter's grave. "We will take them to an orphanage, like you ought to do with this sort of thing."

Petunia hesitated answering, looking a bit uncomfortable as she took the letter and read through it again. "I don't know Vernon. Obviously I would love to do that, even more than you do, I know what it is like to be with their sort and it's not pleasant - especially not for a child and I don't want raise Diddykins in such a poisonous atmosphere. But… this person…"

"What?" Vernon snapped and stomped over to her to glance at the letter. "Albus _what_? What the hell sort of name is that?"

"A wizard's name," Petunia answered darkly. "He's been around for a while, he was the headmaster of Lily's school when she went there - I remember, it was in the letter - and Lily told me he is the most powerful of them. Obviously he's some sort of lunatic since he's gotten so much power, but…"

She looked up to him, her face scrunched up in anxiety. "He says it ought to be us. What… what do you suppose he would do to us if we declined?"

"He can't do anything, there are laws against that sort of thing," Vernon scoffed. "We'll just call the bobbies and -"

"And what could they do against that sort of person?" Petunia snapped. "Like it helped with James Potter at our wedding!" shaking her head she turned to the two little Potters and scowled at them. "They can do horrible things, really, really horrible things. And no one can stop them."

"…freaks," Vernon murmured, turning to look at the black haired toddlers. He blinked slightly as one of them slapped the other all of sudden, momentarily stopping the other's constant turtle-writhing. "Freaks," he said again with more conviction. "So, you think this crackpot headmaster person would do something to us of we kicked the brats out?"

"He could, yes," Petunia agreed, straightening her neck while one of the Potter babies shook the other like you did when you tried to knock some sense into someone.

"Hmm…" the man hummed, folding his arms before glancing between the two Potters and his own son, who was still happily looking at his cartoons. He did not want his perfect little Dudders exposed to such… such abominations. But he liked the idea of some insane wizard descending upon their housed even less. "What should we do with them, then?" he finally asked.

Petunia frowned and fretted and frowned some more, trying to think of something. "Isn't… isn't there a lock in the smallest bedroom's door?" she then asked.

With that it was settled. While Vernon went looking for the key to the said lock, Petunia scooped the twin brats to her arms and hurriedly took them upstairs. There the extra toys and such were quickly pushed out of the bedroom and into Duddley's room or the guest room, before Petunia deposited the twins to the floor. Then Vernon locked the door behind them, locking the brats inside.

"We will need a bed for them. And proper curtain to the window," Petunia said once the threat was safely locked away. "Maybe some toys to keep them quiet."

"Yes," Vernon agreed. "I will swing by some stores on my way home, see what I can find. Some second hand store might have cribs we can get for the brats. Maybe some toys too," he said and together they went back downstairs, trying to figure out the cheapest, easiest way to keep the twin brats from making too much of trouble for them.

Back in the room, one of the two Harry Potters sighed with annoyance while slapping the other again to try and stop him from acting like complete idiot. The writhing and wiggling was starting to seriously annoy him.

Then the other realised he had a mouth, and let out a noise, making the first one rather grateful that there were no pillows around. Giving up with his epic plan and smothering the other was starting to seem like the best thing he could do right then.

x

Vernon and Petunia did get a bed and even some toys and a soft blanket to the floor - they decided on just one bed because the twin-crib turned out to be cheaper than getting separate ones. The window was completely blocked by blinds, so if the neighbours found out about the brats, it at least wasn't because their next door neighbour could see them. With these measures taken care off, the Dursleys happily went along with their lives, only bothering to think about the brats when they needed to be fed or washed. Thankfully the latter happened pretty rarely as it seemed that freaks didn't defecate.

Except they did, but one of the Harry Potters could not stand it long enough to wait for Petunia to take care of it, so he took care of it himself. It kept their room clean and somewhat pleasant smelling and his moron counterpart had less to whine about when his diaper was constantly clean, which was also a plus.

Dudley Dursley did not find out about his twin cousins until almost two months after they had joined the household. Until then he had been blissfully distracted the few times Petunia had moved to tend to the other kids, and had thus managed to miss them completely. When he did finally notice, it was very confusing occurrence for him.

There they were, these two black things, sitting on _his couch_ all of sudden, and Mummy and Daddy paid no mind to them. He looked between the twins - one of whom was pulling the other's hair to keep him from doing something stupid like jumping off the couch - and then at his parents who acted like there was nothing out of ordinary going on. Then he looked back at the twins and decided that they were obviously his new play things, and reached out to twist the stupid-looking one's toes.

Only to get immediately kicked to the nose by the mean-looking one.

He was so surprised by the sudden blow that he didn't even cry out like he normally would've, just stared at the mean looking black haired boy, blinking with bafflement. Then, deciding that he was going to have none of it, he reached for the mean-one's foot and twisted _his_ toes. In an instant, the mean-looking-one was at him, swinging his fists at Dudley's face.

While Mummy and Daddy yelled and pulled them apart, Dudley stared at the mean-black-one with surprise and, for a moment, admiration. Mummy and Daddy never hit back, and thought normally Dudley would've let out a screech at this sudden development - because he was _Dudders_ and no one hit _Dudders_ - this was something new and interesting. And the look on the mean-one's face made it clear that this new and interesting thing wasn't going to go away despite how Mummy and Daddy screamed at him.

Dudley grinned widely, making the mean-looking-one blink with surprise. This was going to be fun.

From Harry Potter's perspective, it seemed like his cousin had lost what little sense he had.

Aside from the weird matter of ever-clean diapers and the occasional fist fights which broke between one of the Harry Potters and Dudley, things didn't really change much in the Dursley house hold thorough the following months. Petunia stayed home, kept peace in the house, spied on her neighbours and gossiped like it was the last day left to gossip. Vernon went to work and brought food to the table and bragged about how well his family was doing thank you very much. Dudley grew up and sideways like proper little tyke ought to, and learned that his cousin was very fast and had pretty sharp fingernails. Harry Potters grew, one of them getting more and more disappointed with the other as the other showed now signs of intelligence and remained a slobbering idiot.

Until one day, when everything changed - if only a little bit.

It was the day when Marge Dursley, Vernon's smart and successful sister, came to see her favourite nephew on his second birthday - and coincidentally, met the Harry Potters for the first time. She saw them sitting in the living room floor and immediately asked if they were neighbourhood brats and where were their mother, how dare she let them drool on the fine carpeting like that - and when Petunia explained things, she was obviously displeased.

"You're such a kind soul, Petunia, letting these brats freeload in your fine house," she said while standing upon the two brats and glowering down on them. "But if it had been me, I would've thrown them straight at the nearest orphanage. Whose smart idea was it to hoist them on you? What are they names? Are they any use at house work?" And so forth. It was relatively innocent at first - aside from the verbal abuse, but even that was harmless because only one of the Harry Potters could understand and he didn't really care.

But then Marge's most beloved dog, a prize bulldog named Ripper, decided that the little boys looked rather like juicy chew toys, and tried to bit one of them to the arm. Only tried because before he could, one of the Harry Potters tipped a chair on top of the dog's back.

No one really got the chance to figure out _how_ the toddler got the strength to push the chair or how a _chair_ could do so much damage. Vernon and Petunia had their suspicions, of course, but they were too shocked by the gore and blood spilling across their carpet to really think about it right then - and with Marge screaming like a fire-alarm, it was too hard to think really anything. Ripper on other hand was too shocked about the fact that he was suddenly split in two to do much but whine, and die.

Amongst the screaming and horror and more screaming, no one noticed how the formerly blank, unintelligent eyes of one of the Harry Potters cleared as he stared at the gore before him, or how they narrowed as he noticed that he was covered in dog blood. Marge was too busy screaming and trying to revive her now dead dog and Vernon and Petunia were too busy trying to figure out what they were supposed to do or how they could salvage the situation, to notice him - or how his and the other Harry Potter's eyes met.

_'Finally,'_ thought one of the Harry Potters while other thought something along the lines of, _'What the hell?'_

Their moment of revelation was interrupted when Petunia came to her senses and grabbed them while Vernon went to get the mob. They were promptly taken upstairs and locked up in their room, while the Dursleys rushed to salvage their living room carpet and hopefully stop Aunt Marge from having a breakdown.

Left alone in their room, the two Harry Potters stared at each other, other looking very satisfied with the situation while other was trying to figure out what the heck was going on. He looked around them, taking in the surroundings with some measure of displeasure, and then turned to look at the other just as that Harry Potter got to his slightly wobbly feet and made his way to their box of half broken toys. From there, he fished out a toy mirror and threw it at the still sitting, and still confused, boy. After a moment, the confused boy took the mirror from the floor - and was promptly even more confused about the way he looked, glancing between his mirror reflection and the other little boy and frowning the way toddlers do when they are confused.

"Ah ta he?" he asked and then slapped his tiny, clumsy hand over his mouth, shocked by the garbled noise he had made. It wasn't enough that he was a bloody baby all of sudden, but he couldn't even _speak_? What the hell had happened to him?

"E ne lea to spii," the other answered rather unhelpfully while sitting beside him. "Wi ta a whii," he added. "Ne vo… voc… voka col."

After figuring out the sudden problem he had, the first speaker touched his throat, wondering how long it took for vocal chords to develop. It probably happened through practice which meant he had to spew out this garbled crap until it made some sense. "Fu," he announced resolutely.

"Uhhuh," the other nodded in complete agreement and grinned while looking perfectly satisfied.

A slightly worried by his double's happiness, the first speaker leaned back a little. "Nam?" he demanded to know, waving haphazardly at the other. "U nam? Wa sis?"

"A… Ha… Hallii P-Po," the other toddler tried to pronounce, frowning with annoyance before barking out, "Hali Pottal!" and looking very much displeased. "Fu sis," he growled. "Fuen annyn."

However, the message had gotten through to the other who stared at his double, Harry _bloody_ Potter, in perfect shock. Then he touched his own face again, remembering the face looking back at him from the mirror. The same face the other brat had. Cautiously he rubbed his hand over his forehead and found a tender spot there, a scar. "Fu," he said, wondering what had happened, what had gone wrong - how badly you had to screw up a curse for something like this to happen. "Fuen hell!" he added, not even noticing he had managed to actually pronounce a word right. "Ho nn ta hell?"

The other Harry Potter smiled at him, a wide partially toothless grin with wide, oddly gleaming eyes. It looked decisively put of place on a toddler's face. "Ahaha," the boy laughed and reached out to tug the other boy's hair. "U min. I mae u," he said, tugging from left to right. "Mi sla."

"Wat?" the other asked, pretty sure he had translated that bit of toddler speak completely wrong. The other was a little kid after all, there was no way he could speak coherently anyway, so the words couldn't be what they had sounded like. Right? It was just incoherent toddler babbler and nothing else.

"U," the other said with a wider grin, pushing him at the shoulder rather roughly. "Mi," he added, motioning at himself and then made a clumsy motion which looked rather like choking someone. "Slav! Mi to-y!"

Unless the other was too, somehow, intelligent and his speech was being garbled by undeveloped vocal chords that turned everything he tried to say into incoherent babble.

"Nuh-uh," he answered, shaking his head. "U nsan," he added before frowning. Even if the other had intelligence somehow, it changed nothing. He was _Lord Voldemort_ after all, regardless of what body he was in, and the other was nothing but bump on the road. However he had ended in the twin body of Harry Potter didn't matter. All he needed to do was get out of here - maybe after killing his double - and get back to his Death Eaters and -

His thoughts stopped as a yelp of pain tore from his lips. Tears rose to his eyes and with shock he looked down to his hand which was currently in the other's hold - and by the look of the angle of his fore finger, the other had just broken it. He stared at in horror and then tried to tug his hand free, only to find the other's grip tighter than iron and that every move he made only made it worse.

"U min," the other Harry Potter said with a smile and pulled the broken finger, making Voldemort let out a another yelp of pain. "U unten Holcus, I too u fo insi mi. Ma u a bod-ii. U min nu. Beong tu mi. Foeva."

"Wha?" he tried to ask, but couldn't really get it through, couldn't really understand the words, the pain pulsing thorough his weak, fragile hand was too much, making his eyes blurry with tears and his breathing stutter and falter. "Leggo. I hults!"

"Onl iv u sai u min," the other demanded and twisted the finger again, making stars dance across Voldemort's eyes. "Sai i! Sai u min!"

"Fuen, sto i!" he demanded, but it made no difference, the other merely twisted his finger again, almost making him pass out with the pain. "Fin. Fin!" he finally screamed. "I ur! Sto i! I fuen hults!"

"Ha!" the other said with satisfaction but did not let go of his hand, only released the broken finger but not the wrist. As Voldemort blinked some vision into his bleary eyes, he saw the other hold his hand up and run a single finger over the broken finger. In a instant, the pain was gone, leaving his hand echoing with the memory but not as painful as before. "Goo," the other said with a smile and released his hand, leaving Voldemort to stare at it in shock. It was healed, as good as new. "U undel…sta. Goo."

"Fuen hell," Voldemort muttered and looked at his double with shock. "Hu da hell?"

Harry Potter grinned at him widely and made a wiggly motion with his fingers. "U nitemal," he said, and laughed.

"Fuen hell," Voldemort said again, wondering if he was in some sort of hell especially designed for him.

x

Petunia and Vernon didn't really notice anything different about the two Harry Potters, but they had always been more or less weird and they were too adjusted to it to pay mind. Dudley noticed, but it made little difference to him if the stupid-looking-one was now the second-mean-one instead. So, the awakening of Voldemort change really nothing for the family, even whilst it changed everything for the two Harry Potters, who were rabidly learning how to speak better.

They were, unknown by all, in a battle of wills and Voldemort was determined to come on top. He had yet to figure out who the hell the other Harry Potter was or how he had ended up as one of _two_ Harry Potters, but he was pretty sure that the other wasn't the original. He didn't act like two year old after all, so he too had to be someone who had somehow managed to hijack Harry Potter's body. Except apparently unlike Voldemort, who had no idea how he had ended up like this, the other had apparently done his hijacking knowingly and with a plan.

And apparently Voldemort was part of that plan, somehow, making him wonder if the other was some sort of dark wizard or dark lord he didn't know about who needed Voldemort's help. It was the only explanation that made sense because the other Harry Potter was definitely not a good wizard - and he was definitely _a_ wizard. A very talented one at that.

"How can you _do_ that?" Voldemort demanded to know why his duplicate casually stole a piece of candy from their so called _cousin_, making it float across the living room.

"Magic," the other Harry Potter answered with wide eyes and grin on his face. He never really gave a real answer which was especially annoying since Voldemort had yet to figure out how to use magic in Potter's body - and he needed magic in order to Disapparate from the loathsome Muggle house.

The other Harry Potter however didn't seem willing to let him go, it seemed. The one time Voldemort mentioned it, the other slapped him hard enough to bruise before getting a piece of rope and tying Voldemort to the bed - he had remained trapped until the muggle aunt of Harry Potter's had came to get them for dinner and had released him. When he had tried to get out of the house just to see the stars so that he could navigate his apparition properly later on, his double had dragged him back in and wouldn't let him go outside for weeks afterwards, not unless Petunia kicked them out. Potter had even tried to keep him from seeing the date from newspapers and such, but it hadn't lasted long - and Voldemort had not been happy to find that almost year had gone by.

"You're mine. You're not going anywhere," Potter said determinately when he snapped at him about the whole thing.

"How dare you? Do you even know who I am?" Voldemort answered before he could stop himself, enraged by the idea that this idiot duplicate of Harry Potter thought that he was a _possession_.

To his surprise, the other merely smiled and then promptly tripped him to the floor before sitting on top of him. "You are a mistake," he said, grinning while speaking. "An accidental Horcrux you didn't intend to make, something that just happened when you tried to kill Harry Potter. It had something to do with how torn your soul was, I think, separating piece of you when you were blown up by the rebounding Avada Kedavra. Too many Horcruxes. Harry Potter became the container for piece of your soul - you - which would've amounted to nothing useful without me. I brought you forward. I gave you a body. I made you _exist_. You would be nothing but itching on my forehead without me. And therefore, you belong to _me_."

"…you're lying," Voldemort answered. The Horcruxes, how did the other know about the _Horcruxes_? What _was_ this?

"Out there somewhere is the real Voldemort, growing stronger, searching for a body, plotting his revenge. You're nothing but a weak accidental copy. I was who gave you a body," the fake-Harry Potter said, poking his forehead. "And more than that, I turned you to your own enemy. You are the Boy-Who-Lived now, my dear Dark Lord. The subject of the prophesy, the one who was born as the seventh month dies."

"It's not possible," he denied, shaking his head. "You couldn't have - why would you?"

The other smiled, poking his forehead again. "You're not going anywhere," he said again. "You're my toy now."

It was in no way the last time they argued about that, nor anywhere near the last time Voldemort tried to escape. He had a whole world waiting for him, his work, his glorious campaign to rule all things magical - his followers, his Death Eaters, his dark throne! This duplicate of his might have his own plans, but they didn't particularly matter to Voldemort. The other had just done him a favour by giving him a young, healthy body - body which aging potion would make suitable, and from which he would be invincible! A young magician, no doubt famous for what had happened - a boy who had survived a killing curse and vanquished a dark lord would have to be famous! And he could use that fame to his advantage, he could…

Except, he couldn't leave. Two year old body was little use in escaping, making him slow and clumsy and unable to get far - and the fact that Harry Potter had abysmal eyesight didn't help. And it was especially annoying since magic kept on evading him. And the _other_ Harry Potter stood on his way at all turns, keeping him prisoner in the horrible muggle house.

His natural answer to that last problem was simple. The _new_ problem that came up immediately after was that he for some reason could not kill the other Harry Potter. The knifes all turned blunt in his hand when he tried to cut the other, the pillows were blown up in his hands when he tried to smother him, the ropes and yarn and chains broke to bits when he tried to strange the other. The one time he tried killing the other outside turned into a neighbourhood wide spectacle as the car that was supposed to run over Harry Potter ran into the house numbed fourteen instead, breaking in through the kitchen and ramming into the living room, sending three people in to hospital.

"You idiot counterpart," the other Harry Potter said to him almost fondly. "You really think it would be that easy to get away from me?"

In answer Voldemort tried to feed the other a cup full of lethal chemicals stolen from Petunia's stock. It did nothing - Potter probably somehow transfigured it before drinking or banished the liquid or something similar. In any case, it had no effect and neither did anything else Voldemort tried - and the one garden snake he managed to find in the neighbourhood was pitiful and had no poison. The other Harry Potter answered the numerous useless though probably painful bites by summoning the snake from him and chopping it to bits in front of his twin with few controlled magic bursts.

"Why won't you die?" Voldemort hissed. It wasn't like he was fond of the snake all that much - he had had much useful snakes in his command and this one had been by no means intelligent enough to keep for long anyway - but it was very irritating seeing the other display power when he _still_ couldn't use magic like he wishes.

"Because," the fake Potter answered before aiming his hand at Voldemort smiling. Then all Voldemort knew was pain and blissful darkness before he woke up in hospital to find that Potter had broken both his knees.

It wasn't as much the pain of broken bones or the fact that for following months he wouldn't be able to move without someone carrying him, or even the threat that Potter could if he wanted make the damage permanent - and much worse while he was at it - that made Voldemort stop his murder attempts. It was the fact that he when he woke up, Potter was sitting right next to him with the doctor consoling him that his twin brother would be alright. To see the other act all innocent and worried was bad enough, but the fact that no one suspected him, everyone thinking that he had broken his knees by climbing a tree and falling down…

It was like Potter saying, _I could do anything I wanted to you and no one would suspect me._ And surrounded by muggles with no idea where his counterpart's magical talents extended, Voldemort didn't doubt it. It was unnerving to go from considering the other a pesky nuisance into realising that the other really _could_ monopolise his life, but it was a realisation he had to accept in order to keep on living.

Of course he didn't really _say_ that he would give up his murder attempts, but Potter noticed it anyway. He still refrained full month before healing Voldemort's broken knees completely and erasing all memories off his injury. A punishment or reminder, Voldemort didn't really know. He was relieved nonetheless - being unable to move was driving him insane and it was pain to sleep in the living room couch. He never said _that_ to his counterpart, though.

xx

Mention of this one got more votes, though I suspect if people had known what it was really like they might've voted for something else. Not that it was an actual vote, I was going to post this soon anyway. The idea behind this one; some distant future date Harry goes completely batfeces insane - and equally powerful. Then he goes back in time and decides to make everyone else's life as big of a mess as his own was, or worse. Voldemort horcrux inside him gets to be the lucky testsubject number one. The whole story was written from this idea of Harry Potter twins showing up at Hogwarts with no one knowing which is the real and where the fake came from - or how to tell them apart.

Now, for feces and giggles, let's try an actual vote.  
1. A Naruto crossover with time travelling Harry and no actual canon Naruto characters because the story never got far enough.  
2. Post Hallows story where Auror Potter finds surviving Snape and convinces him to brew potions for Ministry.  
3. A Mushishi crossover where Harry has been transported into the Mushishi world somehow, and his magic has grown a nature of it's own. (Told from Ginko's pov)  
4. The Sentinel crossover where Harry and Naomi meet at Stonehenge (this is already on my group, though).  
5. (due to demand) a Stargate Crossover with mostly unconcious O'Neill and tiny Harry - and a house elf who sort of saves them both.  
6. What else... maybe another weird Doctor Who crossover?

Place your votes, gents and ladies, and my apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	11. Death of Colonel O'neill, HP x SG cross

Warnings: none. Stargate Crossover

**Death of Colonel O'Neill**

He should've gotten used to these sorts of things. That was what General George Hammond told himself more often than he cared to count. After almost solid three years of being the commander of the Stargate Command, he should've gotten adjusted to having his flag-ship team in trouble. It tended to happen so often that, hell, he should've started expecting it! But no, it still somehow managed to surprise him each and every time when a mission that seems so simple and safe turns on its head.

Glancing at his wrist watch he frowned. It had been over two hours when Colonel O'Neill should've reported back. It was far from the first time they had been late in reporting and two hours wasn't much, but it still bothered him quite bit because weren't off world. They were still on Earth, in United Kingdom nonetheless. What could've gone wrong there that would keep them from reporting?

It was such a simple mission too. They had gotten intel that a private collector in London was in possession of some Goa'uld artefacts. Hammond had dispatched the SG1 to investigate because for one, they were the foremost experts in these things and for two… sending them out to a brief _safe_ mission with no risk of any sort of enemy encounter had seemed rather attractive. They got into trouble too often that mission like this one would give them a chance to relax a little. Or it had been supposed to.

They had taken civilian flight to London from where they had supposed to meet with the private collector - and after that they had been supposed to report back from their hotel. They hadn't and the hotel where they had been supposed be in hadn't seen a sign of them. The logical assumption was that something had happened during the meeting, but for the life of him Hammond couldn't figure out why. Why would the collector attack his team?

Unless it had been set up from the first place and somebody had intentionally set up the intel for them as bait, knowing that Hammond would send SG1. And he didn't have to think too hard to come into the conclusion of who it could be. It hadn't been that long since they had put and end to the NID off world operations after all. When he was completely honest, the General admitted that they should've been expecting some sort of retaliation.

"General," a voice came through the intercom. It was Sergeant Walter Harriman and he sounded almost relieved. "I have Major Carter on the line."

Reaching for the phone, Hammond pushed the button in the device down. "Thank you, Walter," he said and then picked the phone. "Major Carter, you're late in reporting. Where is Colonel O'Neill?" he cut to the chase.

"We don't know, sir," the woman answered, sounding a little bit tired. "He isn't with us anymore and we have no way of knowing where he could be."

The General blinked sharply and then frowned. "Report, Major," he demanded.

"Yes, sir. We went to meet with Professor Foster like planned, and met his assistant, Mister Green, who led us to wait in the Professor's office. We didn't wait for more than few minutes before the door was locked and the ventilation system started pumping gas into the room. We were knocked out inside a minute, sir, even Teal'c didn't handle the gas for more than few minutes longer than we did. We've been out of it for about four hours. We came to just little while ago in a back alley which seems to be in other side of London. I'm calling you from a phone booth, sir."

"And Colonel O'Neill isn't with you?" Hammond asked with a frown.

"No sir," the Major answered. "Daniel, Teal'c and I have not been harmed, so I think it's a safe bet to say that they were only after the Colonel and not us. General, I would like to request a permission to return to Professor Foster's house."

"Negative, Major, not unarmed and not before we know what we're up against," the General gave it a moment of thought. This had supposed to be a quiet operation without any trouble, holiday even. If it was going to get noisy, he would no doubt come face to face with politics - and he doubted that the British would like the idea of American soldiers on their ground. "I'm sending SG-3 to assist you. In mean time keep quiet and try gathering intel of the Professor and his assistant, but keep your distance."

"But sir -"

"No arguments, Major. Return to the hotel. I will call you back in one hour," the General said sharply. "That is an order."

"…yes sir. Carter out." With that the line turned quiet.

Sighting Hammond lowered the phone and frowned. He had a bad feeling about this. And he had had enough bad feelings to know that this was particularly bad one.

x

Ava was a good house elf, even if a bit old. She woke up every morning early and started her day by checking the manor's property. It was important to check the wards and the walls and the protective spells in the garden. She also made certain to check if any animal had wandered into the grounds and if they had she would gently usher them away.

After checking the property protections, she would check the garden. The flowerbeds had enjoyers years and years of her gentle care and she always made sure to check if they needed tending to. If there were any weeds she would take care of them immediately. She also checked the trees to see if they needed tending to. She no longer trimmed the branches though. The former mistress had preferred to let the trees grow wildly. But if any of the branches looked unhealthy or like they were about to snap, she would take care of them quickly enough.

Ava's next task was cleaning the manor. There usually wasn't much to clean since she had done the same task every day for countless of days. Dust never got enough time to settle. But sometimes, during fall especially, the wind would blow the windows open mess up the rooms. Sometimes she would find yellowed leafs and if it was raining she would have to wipe the desks, mob the floors and sometimes even wash the carpets.

Also, she had to wash the beddings every week, even though no one slept in them.

Every Saturday she check the building itself. The mansion was very old, older than her great grandfather who had been the first house elf to clean the enormous house. It hadn't been tended by wizard's magic for many years, so sometimes parts of it gave up. The front door hinges had rusted at one point and it had taken her few days to conjure a replacement. She had to repair the rooftop periodically, as the tiles were old.

Once a wind had broken two windows and she had not only had to replace them but wash the carpets after she had cut herself into the glass shards and bled all over the floors. It had been a disaster and if there had been a master in the house, Ava was sure she would've been given clothes. But there was no master. Hadn't been for very, very long time.

Once a week she also checked the cellars beneath the mansion. They weren't as extensive as they were in some mansions, but every spring they would flood and she had to spell the water out. There were also mice in the cellars and every week she had to set traps and empty them. She felt sorry for the mice, but she couldn't let them stay there. Not after they had broken a shelf full of wine, which had resulted destruction over half of the bottles

Sometimes Ava would spend time in the library, organising the books. Every master of the house had had a different system with the books. Sometimes they wanted them organised by the name. Sometimes by the category. One had wanted them organised by the author's name. Though there was no master there now to order a certain organisation, Ava liked organising the books. Like that she could also check that they were still in good condition and if they weren't she would do anything she could to repair them.

Ava did all these tasks even though it had been years since her master had told her to stay in the mansion and not to come looking for him unless it was emergency. There hadn't been emergencies in the manor so Ava had stayed, looking after the house like she was supposed to. She missed her master and her mistress, but knew why they had to stay away. There had been a war, a terrible war, going out there. Her masters couldn't have risked staying in the manor - it had been too well known and the mistress had wanted to make sure that the library would be preserved. The books were too old and precious to be burned by the fires of war.

So they had left the manor but before that a spell had been put over the place. A Fidelius had been cast on the manor to keep it safe - and the secret keeper that had been chosen couldn't give the secret away. Young master had been too young to even speak back then, the mistress had thought that he'd be the perfect secret keeper for something they didn't want to be found until much, much later…

Young master was nine now, Ava knew. She also knew that young master was _the_ master now. The elder master and the mistress were gone, had been gone for year. Ava had often wished that she could go to the young master, to serve him as she had served the masters before him… but she couldn't. The orders from the old master and mistress kept her at the manor.

It was terrible thing to wish for, but often she did hope that something terrible would happen at the manor so that she could go to report it to the young master. She tried not to think of such things and always punished herself by giving herself futile tasks like raking the grounds or cutting the grass. But she couldn't help it. She was lonely and the manor needed a master.

It was late autumn of her young master's ninth year of life when something special happened. She was scrubbing the kitchen when the wards alerted her that there were muggles close by. Immediately she popped from kitchen to the edge of the wards where the garden turned into a thick forest. There she could see one of those horrible loud horseless muggle carriages driving down the narrow path through the forests. Muggles had come to the forest before, to hunt and some to gather berries and such, but usually they came on foot.

At first she thought that the black carriage would keep going, but it stopped not far from the ward's edge. Two male muggles came out of it, looking around before walking to the read end of the vehicle. It opened like lid of a trunk and to her horror she could see a third man inside the trunk. The two others pulled the man out and then carried him closer to her, dropping the unconscious man into the raspberry bushes. As Ava stared at the man from the protection of the ward with horror all over her wrinkled face, the two conscious muggles returned to their loud carriage. Moment later, Ava was alone with the unconscious muggle.

When she could no longer hear the noise made by the muggle carriage, Ava carefully stepped out from the protection of the mansion's wards and towards the muggle man. The man was in bad shape, he looked like he had gone through a battle. Thanks to the old mistress before the last mistress, Ava knew a thing or two of healing and could tell even from afar that the man wasn't dead… not yet. But he was getting there - he was dying.

Ava panicked a little. Her masters had always been kind and she knew that if they were there they would take care of the muggle. They would expect her to do the same but she couldn't, not without orders. And she couldn't take the muggle to the manor because of the Fidelius charm - the muggle wouldn't be able to get in. The wards too would repel the muggle. Yet if she would leave the muggle here, she was sure that when young master would arrive, he would be very mad with her.

Then she realised something that brought a startled joy to her old face. This was an emergency. She could go to young master to ask his orders! And if she would do it immediately, she could come back in no time to help the muggle if that was what the young master would want.

x

Harry was having one of many days that could be better. Though, if he put his mind to it he would end up in conclusion that most likely every day of his life could be better. But days like this were even worse than your normal days.

The first thing in the morning he had slept in, which hadn't pleased his aunt at all. She had woken him very loudly before making him mind the breakfast while she did more important things like finish her morning tea. When his uncle had woken up and came downstairs, Harry had been in his path and had been pushed aside by his uncle formidable form. He had almost thumbed over with the frying pan in his hand - he didn't even want to think what would've happened if he hadn't managed to regain his balance and had dropped the pan in the process. Nothing nice, that was for sure.

For waking up late and almost messing up breakfast, Harry was given none. Instead aunt Petunia made him set up the washing machine while the Dursleys enjoyed the breakfast he had made, uncle Vernon and Dudley happily sharing the part which should've been Harry's breakfast. It was far from the first time it had happened and Harry knew better than to get mad over it, but he still felt stinging unfairness because of it.

When he and Dudley headed to school, he was hungry and had to carry Dudley's backpack. His cousin kept picking rocks from the side of the street and throwing them at his feet, laughing at the way Harry kept stumbling while trying to avoid being hit. And when ever he was hit, he was almost happy that he had been forced to wear Dudley's second hand pants - they were so big that they bunched up around his ankles and protected him from some of the hits.

When they got to the school, Dudley had grabbed his bag and pushed Harry aside before whining that Harry had tried to steal his bag. The teachers had admonished Harry for his "poor behaviour" while Dudley had grinned and ran to his friends. From the look of their faces Harry could already tell that this would be a Harry Hunting day. And so it was - as soon as the teachers were looking other way. Dudley and his gang started to stalk him. Harry was saved by the bell, literally.

In their first class they were given back a test they had had last week. Harry had done poorly in it - mostly on purpose. He hadn't forgotten how he had been locked in his cupboard and denied meals for entire day because he had gotten hundred percent in one test while Dudley had failed. Ever since then Harry had stopped trying to get good scores and concentrated onto just passing his classes. School success to him wasn't even nearly as important as hot meals.

The teacher admonished him again for his bad results and told him to pay more attention in the class while the others laughed at him. Harry just quietly agreed with the man and didn't look up from the paper. Eventually the man left him alone though a boy beside him congratulated him for being the stupidest of the class. Harry tried to ignore him, but the snickers around him were hard to block out.

Harry spent the next recess running away from Dudley and his friends again. Same also happened on the way from school and Harry was almost relieved when aunt Petunia made him rake the back yard again - Dudley didn't dare to bother him so near to the number four. Harry made sure to rake very slowly too, because he knew that once he would be done, aunt Petunia would either give him something else to do or tell him to go outside. But he couldn't lengthen the raking indefinitely and eventually he was told to get out and come back around dinner.

He went to the park, hoping that there were other kids and possibly parents there too - and if there weren't, maybe he could hide amongst the trees in case Dudley and his gang were there. He ended up hiding in the bushes because Dudley and the two others were at the swings, probably hogging them just so that the other kids couldn't have them. Harry didn't mind though. He just sat down to the ground, and drew pictures to the ground with a stick he found.

That was when something weirder than him appeared and changed his life. With a soft pop a creature unlike anything Harry had ever seen appeared right before him. The creature was small with long floppy years and button like nose, dressed into old dress that looked like it had once been red. It had kind eyes somewhere between green and brown and Harry got the impression that it was rather old - its face was very wrinkled.

"Master Harry, sir," the creature said with a quick little curtsy. "Ava is here to inform you that there has been an emergency at the mansion."

"Huh?" Harry answered with confusion, staring at the creature with shock. He wasn't completely ignorant of weird things, they sometimes happened around him and he always got blamed for them but this was definitely new. "What mansion?"

"Your mansion, master. The Potter family house," the creature answered quickly, making Harry lift his eyebrows in shock. The creature quickly continued, "There is a man at the edge of the manor grounds, sir. He is wounded badly and Ava thinks he needs medical attention. Ava thinks the man should be helped, but Ava cannot help the man without master's orders."

Harry blinked few times before straightening his back. "Is it serious?" he asked then worriedly.

"Ava thinks the man might die if he does not get help, sir," the creature nodded. "Ava also thinks that time is of the essence. The man is in very bad shape, master; he needs to be tended to now."

"Well, can you help him?"

"If master orders Ava to help, Ava will," the creature looked relieved before it turned worried again. "Though Ava cannot take the man to the mansion. The protection of the grounds will prevent it. the man can only be taken inside if master personally allows it."

"And… I'm the master?" Harry asked with a frown. "Well, uh… I allow you to take the man to the mansion so that you can take care of him."

"No, master, Ava still cannot. Master will have to give the permission to the man, not to Ava. And it must be done in person," the creature added, looking strangely hopeful. "Ava thinks master should come to the mansion himself. That way master can see the wounded man for himself and decide if the man should be helped."

Harry scratched his scalp with a frown. To go with the creature to this manor place? "Where is the mansion?" he asked carefully.

"Not far from London, sir," the creature assured.

"But if it's that far from here, how could we get there on time?" the boy asked with worried frown. "The man could be dead before we get there."

The old creature smiled amusedly. "Ava can take master there in no time at all," she said, offering her small wrinkled hand to him. "And if master wants it, Ava can bring him back just as quickly."

Harry hesitated. Though the creature seemed kind, he didn't know it, nor did he know this mansion place. But the creature, Ava, had called it the "Potter family house," which definitely roused Harry's curiosity. After moment of thought, Harry nodded and took the hand offered to him. "Alright. Take me to the man, Ava."

The creature smiled to him so widely that she resembled a split pumpkin - a very wrinkled split pumpkin with floppy ears and button nose. "As master wishes," she said happily. There was a soft popping noise before the ground seemed to vanish from under Harry's feet.

And then he found himself in another forest, sitting amongst moss and undergrowth of shoots and twigs. The wrinkled creature was there with him and lying right next to them was unconscious man dressed in ripped green clothing. There was some dried blood under his nose, bruises all over his face and it looked like his upper lip had been split.

"This is the man?" Harry asked, letting go of Ava's hand and shifting closer to examine the man. He didn't know anything about what to do in these situations but in telly they always checked something from the throat when someone was in state like this man, so Harry did the same. He could feel faint pulsing under his fingers

"Yes master," Ava said, twiddling her wrinkled hands. "Men in one of those noisy horseless muggle carriages brought him and left him here. Ava thinks that they might've been the ones to hurt him."

Harry frowned worriedly and looked around. He noticed that there was a brick wall not too far from them. "What is that?"

"The wall that surrounds the mansion grounds, master," Ava said.

Harry nodded and turned to look at the creature. "Can you help this man, Ava?" he asked.

"Ava thinks she can do something, but the man should be taken inside the mansion first," the old creature said. "Master needs to give the man permission to enter the mansion first."

Harry nodded again, turning to the unconscious man. Running his gaze over the man's form from the greying hair to the black boots, he coughed. "I give you the permission to enter the Potter family mansion," he said to the man, before glancing at Ava. "Does that do it?"

"It should," the creature nodded.

"Can you take us inside the mansion the way you brought me here? The man too I mean," Harry nodded towards the unconscious man. He didn't think he would be able to drag the man over the wall or to a gate if there was one even if he tried and it certainly wouldn't do the man any good.

"Ava can," the creature nodded. "But Ava will have to take master and the man separately. Ava is old and doesn't have the strength to pop two people at once."

"Alright," Harry nodded. Ava nodded as well, before grapping his hand. Again Harry felt a strange sinking feeling before he found himself in a large, well decorated room with enormous fire place and comfortable looking couches and arm chairs. Before he had chance to look around more thoroughly, Ava popped away and then back again, this time with the unconscious man.

"If master wants it, Ava will try to help the man," the creature said. "But Ava isn't trained in medical arts. Ava might not be able to help the man as well as the man should be helped."

"Is there anything here that might help?" Harry asked while looking around in the room, thinking of medicine and bandages. "Medicine or something like that?"

"No, Ava does not think so. There are some books about healing in the library, but that is probably it."

"Well, do what you can," Harry told it. As the old creature turned and started to work, Harry carefully sat down beside the man and watched. Ava's hands, though frail and weak looking, seemed to have a strange power in them because at the glow of her finger tips the man's wounds seemed to close. And there were quite many wounds, some of them looking disturbingly like something Harry had seen only in the telly - gun shot wounds.

"Do you think he has been shot?" Harry asked carefully.

The old creature looked up. "Ava does not know what being shot means, sir," it then answered confusedly.

"Like with a gun, or…" Harry trained away before coughing awkwardly. It didn't seem like the creature had any idea what he was talking about. "Never mind. Do you think you can save him?"

"Ava can close the wounds and heal the broken bones, master," the creature answered with a worried frown, continuing to perform her strange magic on the unconscious man. "But that is all Ava knows about healing. If the man has any internal wounds, Ava doesn't think she can heal them."

Harry frowned. He had once broken a rib and could remember the visit to the hospital. He had had to go through a brief surgery because there had been little bit of internal bleeding. If the man had something like that and Ava couldn't help… "You said that there are books in the library about, uh, healing, right?" he asked. "Do you think I could learn something helpful from them?"

"The old mistress before last mistress was a healer," Ava said thoughtfully. "So there are many books about healing in the library. Ava thinks that in them there are helpful spells or potions but Ava isn't able to learn them. Human magic is different from house elf magic. But… maybe master could."

"I'll check it out while you take care of him," forcing himself not to get hang up on the word _magic_, Harry nodded and stood up. It couldn't hurt to take a look and sitting around doing nothing made him feel useless and somehow mean. There were few hours before he had to return to the Dursleys, and he wanted to do something, even if it wouldn't be any help. "Where is the library?"

Ava gave him the directions and with them he headed out. He tried not to gawk at the paintings decorating the walls of the corridor between the sitting room and the library, but it was extremely hard. They were _moving,_ few of them sleeping and others staring at him with shock - one painted man was so shocked by the sight of him that he fell of his painted chair. When one of them opened her mouth to speak, Harry quickly turned his eyes ahead of him and hurried out of the hall.

Ava, strange teleportation, house which people couldn't step into without his permission and man who had apparently been shot appearing to his life like this was bad enough. He didn't think he could take moving and possibly talking portraits right then.

The library was huge with tall bookcases not only surrounding the walls but standing in lines across the room. It had probably ten or twelve times more books than the library of Harry's school had - and these book were thicker than the thin books of the school library. For a moment Harry was so overwhelmed about the whole place that he couldn't move but then he got overwhelmed by another reason. How was he supposed to find the right books in library this big?

Then he noticed that there were labels in the bookcases. "Household Charms," was attached to one while other had a label saying, "Defence and Duelling" and third was labelled as "General Transfiguration". Walking amongst the bookcases Harry tried to find if any of them was labelled as healing, and eventually he did find it. It was one of the biggest and tallest ones which were against the walls.

To Harry's relief the writing in the backs of the books was usually big and to the point. It was easy to see which books to pass. Books of bone fractures, skin generations, fertility and pregnancy magic and such he passed as useless until he found the ones that seemed the right ones. There were several books that seemed to explain healing internal wounds. Harry picked one labelled as, "Field-healer's guide to repairing internal damage" after seeing that it apparently was meant for war-zones. It would probably have something about bullet holes.

After picking the book, Harry sat down to the floor to read it. But soon he found that reading and understanding were two different things. The book was filled with big words he couldn't understand and even the sentences with simpler words made no sense. He also stopped few times to stare at the book with disbelief when it detailed certain wand movements and proper pronunciation of spells. Not much after he started to feel that he really should put the book away. Apparently wrong wand movement and saying the spells wrong could end up in disaster - the book detailed situation where a field-healer had pronounced the spell wrong and ended up healing someone's lungs together, which crushed their heart. Reading that made Harry's chest ache in sympathetic pain.

"Master," Ava eventually came to interrupt his reading. "Ava has done all she can for the man."

Harry nodded and stood up. He followed the creature back to the living room. All the man's wounds seemed to be gone, he had been cleaned up and apparently Ava had somehow repaired his clothing too. They looked like some sort of military uniform, but Harry couldn't be sure, having only what he had seen in telly as reference. "Do you think he is alright now?"

"He is better, master, but Ava cannot know for certain if it will stay that way," the creature answered, wringing her hands nervously.

"I guess all we can do is wait," Harry murmured before frowning. Laying on the floor - even if the carpet was softer than anything in the Dursley house - couldn't be comfortable. "Is there a bed for him to use?" he asked. "I think that might be better than laying on the floor."

The creature made a yelp. "Of course! Ava apologises for forgetting," she bowed her head. "If master wishes it, Ava will take the man to one of the guest rooms in the second floor."

"Alright, make sure he's comfortable," Harry nodded and watched how the old creature popped away with the still unconscious man. Soon after she popped back, looking like she was expecting him to say something. Awkwardly Harry coughed before speaking. "So, uh… what is this place really?"

"This is the Potter family house, master," Ava answered quickly. "It belonged to your father, master James Potter, before you, sir."

Harry frowned and looked around. "My dad?" he murmured. "I thought that dad…" that he had been nothing but a poor, unemployed drunkard. The Dursleys had said so, telling that his father was the reason his parents were dead. Drunken car crash, they had said, Harry was the only survivor. But… they were happy to lie _about_ Harry so what kept them from lying _to_ him?

Taking a deep breath Harry turned to look at Ava. "What was my dad like?" he asked. "What did he do?"

"Your father was an auror, master. A magical law enforcement officer," Ava quickly explained with shine of admiration in her eyes. "A strong, brave man. Much like his father before him."

Swallowing the boy nodded. "H-how did he and mum die?" he inquired carefully. "Do you know?"

"Ava is not sure. Old master and mistress left the mansion years ago, leaving Ava to watch over it. There was a war and they went into hiding. A bad wizard was after them," the creature said sadly. "Ava always assumed that the bad wizard found them and killed them - in those times, many were killed like that."

Killed. No, murdered. Not in drunken accident but by a wizard. _'But then again, it wouldn't be the first time the Dursleys lied,'_ Harry mused darkly. "And they left this house to me?"

"Everything they owned, master, belongs to you," Ava nodded. "The Potter family house is just one of your properties, master. Ava knows of few of them, but Gringotts probably has a fuller statement of them."

"Gringotts?"

"The Wizarding bank, master."

Harry thought about it for a moment before sitting down. "Ava, tell me everything. Start with magic and wizards and go up from there."

Few hours later Harry sat in the dining hall of the mansion eating what was possibly the best dinner he had ever had - Ava was a brilliant cook. While polishing his plate he mulled over everything Ava - who was apparently a female house elf - had told him. It was incredible tale but for some reason he couldn't help but feel that it was true, every word of it. Hidden world of magic, wizards, witches and magical creatures of all sorts… it was all true.

And Harry himself was a wizard. And not just any wizard. He was the lord of the Potter house - well, he was also the only living member of the Potter family but he still was apparently amongst the wealthiest wizards of United Kingdom. And apparently he had a seat in a council called Wizengamot, whatever that was. In the end it meant that he had something the Dursleys had always told he would never have. Home, wealth and prestige. Well, he also had a wounded to take care of, but that he didn't mind.

Happily cutting into his steak, Harry decided that he had just ran away from the Dursley home and he had no intention of ever going back. Here he had more than he could've dreamed off - space and capability to do anything he wanted. And food as much as he could eat - better food than the Dursleys had ever given him at that. Yes, he was most certainly better off here than at the number four Privet Drive.

**x**

Later in life Harry looked back to his first days of magic and mused that he could've gone a different path - and he definitely could've started better. But his hand was pushed, so to speak, by his still unconscious guest. Ava had done her best and Harry was certain that it was her efforts that had kept his guest alive for so long, but his state wasn't improving. After a day or so in the Potter mansion, the man's condition started to decline. Harry and Ava took it as a sign of internal damage Ava couldn't repair.

If Harry had had the time, he might've been able to read through the library's healing books and maybe come up with a way to help the man. But he didn't have the time - nor did he have the patience. And even the portrait of his grandmother, Eleanor Potter, whom he had found from the second floor sitting room, wasn't much of a help. She was kind woman but very meticulous - and she used words Harry couldn't understand most of the time.

Still Harry kept on, trying to read books much too advanced and complicated for him to understand. The man in his guest room turned paler and sicklier until finally Harry hit the information he needed. Except it wasn't a spell or potion but a name of magical hospital. St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

When he asked about it from Ava, the poor old elf had been so horrified by her own forgetfulness that she had promised to clear the fireplace with her bare hands when the embers were still glowing. Harry of course forbade it, and he couldn't blame her for forgetting. Ava was a good house elf, but she was old and had forgotten lot of things.

Thankfully she hadn't forgotten how to use Floo powder and explained it to him quickly. There was still some powered in the pot next to the first-floor sitting room's fireplace and the fireplace was still connected to the grid. No one just could access it from outside without Harry's permission because of the Fidelius charm protecting the house - the wards also protected the Floo connection.

Sticking his head to the emerald fire was possibly one of the weirdest things Harry had ever done, but he did it without second thought. The sensation was weird, like something had taken his head off and hurled through a long rollercoaster of green fire. Then he suddenly found that he was looking up to what seemed to be a reception room.

"This is St. Mungos," somewhat bored looking woman spoke from near by counter, not even glancing down to him. "How may we help you?"

"I need a healer to make a house call," Harry recited the speech he an Ava had readied for the Floo call. "I have a guest in my house suffering from internal damage and we haven't been able to help him. The damage was probably caused by muggle weaponry."

"Please hold," the woman answered. Taking out a quill and piece of parchment, she wrote something down to the paper before pulling out a stick. She tapped the parchment with the wand, turning it into a paper plane which immediately flew away from the room.

About three minutes later a rather ruffled looking man with wild hair bustled into the room, carrying a what looked like very old fashioned leather doctor bag. "I'm here, I'm here, what's the case?" the man asked with manner of someone who had been abruptly woken from a nap

"House call, internal damage by muggle weaponry," the woman at the counter said while pulling out a magazine. She made a haphazard motion towards Harry. "That crate."

"Well then, well then," the wild looking man approached the fireplace. "What's the house my boy?"

"Potter family house," Harry answered, adding, "You have my permission to enter," and backing away from the crate before he could notice the man's surprised expression.

xx

This was, if memory serves, written to a prompt I found from the HP-SG1 yahoo group and liked, lessee if I can find the original prompt... I do love search functions. Ok, the prompter was lady_stormrider.

_While visiting the UK Colonel O'Neill is kidnapped and left for dead in a place were no one would find him until it's far too late to help him._  
_ However what the murderers did not know was that they had left O'Neill's body on the edge of properties own by a powerful wizard know as Harry Potter._  
_ The house elves of the land quietly find the dying man and brings him back to the manor while alerting their master._

_ Options:_

_ 1) The bad guys can be but not necessary have to be NID. Don't forget Jack has pissed off a lot of people over this lifetime. Also it could be just a random act of violence too._  
_ 2) This bunnie doesn't have to be a post-Hogwarts fic. I think it might be an interesting fic if it was pre-Hogwarts._  
_ 3) Jack can suffer from amnesia. Being in the middle of the wizard world would make it harder for Jack to recover his lost memories since there is nothing to jog them back. No Homer Simpson!_

I think I was gonna have Jack with amnesia, and once he would wake up he would follow Harry around as partial guardian and partial bodyguard and together with Ava they would've unravelled the mysteries of magic. And mostly gotten into shenanigans. But then I got bored, of course, and wrote something else.

So, Stargate cross won with whopping 15,4 votes, next will come Mushishi cross with it's 9,3 votes, then Naruto one with 7,9 votes, Doctor Who cross with 6,1 votes, post Hallows story with 2,9 votes, and since the Sentinel cross only got 0,3 votes, I will post it some future date after all the others if I feel like it. Why so many fractals? Because people voted 2 and 3 things at the same time and I wasn't going to give them two votes for it.

My apologies for possible grammar errors. Old story be old.


	12. Green Light, Mushishi x HP cross

Warnings: none. Harry Potter and Mushishi Crossover._  
_

**Green light**

It was a nice day outside. The sky was nearly cloudless and the gentle breeze was almost a blessing after the silence of mountain valleys where the breeze didn't reach. The way it rushed through the reeds and bushes of the river side was like some unplanned music, and accompanied by the merry rippling of the water and the odd song by a passing bird, it made music he found he rarely got tired of.

Good trait that, in a traveller. If he would've gotten annoyed by the sound the nature could make, that would've made travelling a pain. And as Ginko had no choice but to travel or bring some share of his own misfortune upon the land and its possible people, it was especially good for him to like the nature and all things involved. Most of the time he encountered nothing but. Though that, possibly, was also why he found himself often so fond of his fellow humans. They made different sounds and in comparison he heard them rarely.

"This seems like a lively place," he murmured, looking around. Just little past the bushes and trees which grew next to the river side, there was a tanada. It wasn't the harvest season yet, and still even from afar he could see the terraces of the tanada were green with rice, so green that one could barely see the water. In comparison to the last place he had visited, which had been struggling despite good rains and river which flowed freely, this place truly seemed blessed.

That, he supposed, supported the rumour he had heard from this place.

After giving the tanada last look of consideration, he continued onwards, taking out a fresh cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with the one he had been previously smoking, which was almost finished. While throwing the stump to the river, he looked around in search for a path up the hill of the tanada - the village was up there after all. Before finding it, however, his eyes landed on especially green and high patch of grass growing not far from the lowest of the tanada terraces - and a shape hiding in it.

Blinking with surprise, Ginko curiously walked closer, wondering why they had let such a green patch grow so near when there was danger of weeds getting to the tanada. The thought was forgotten when he saw the person hiding in the grass - a man wearing a rather nice dark yukata. The man was curled to his side on the grass and, apparently, he was asleep.

Odd place to sleep in, Ginko mused, glancing around. Sleeping among such high grass couldn't be comfortable, and there was lot of more comfortable spots around. He looked down to the man, pondering if he should wake him, but decided against it. It was up to the man himself to choose his sleeping spots, after all. Who was lowly traveller like Ginko to disturb him since he seemed so content? Especially on such a nice day.

Casting a last glance at the sleeping man, Ginko headed up in search for the path, which he eventually found next to the terraced rice field. Heading upwards, he eyed the terraces next to him. They really were full. Harvest wouldn't be in weeks and yet the plants were already heavy. Heavier than they would've been with just a good soil or water or care. This was beyond mere good farming or luck.

_'The wild plant life here is especially healthy as well,'_ he mused, looking around. The wild bushes and the trees were incredibly green, some of them already bearing fruit. _'This is the sort of thing one could expect from a Koumyakusuji, but this place isn't one… the nearest Koumyakusuji is pretty far from here…'_

As he came to the top of the tanada, he glanced back downwards, wondering how far the effect reached. It was impossible to tell in such a lively area, but the entire tanada was included, as well as the areas surrounding it. "Hmm…" the man hummed in thought sucking a breath full of smoke before exhaling it at a small cluster of Mushi dancing in the air near by, just to make sure they wouldn't get any bright ideas about following him. After that he turned to the village and headed forward, hoping to ask for some directions.

The first person he encountered was a woman tending to a small patch of vegetables. "Yo," Ginko greeted the woman, who looked up with surprise. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions."

"Questions? You're a traveller?" the woman asked curiously, brushing her hands together to clean the worst dirt off them. "I don't mind. Go ahead."

"I've heard that there is an Ikioijin here," Ginko said thoughtfully. "Is it true?"

The woman blinked with surprise before smiling. "Makes sense you would ask that first," she nodded, cleaning her hands into her apron while leaving the garden patch and walking closer to Ginko. "It's true. He lives here."

Ginko raised his eyebrows. _'She admits it pretty easily. One would think people here would be a bit more possessive and protective of such a thing as Ikioijin…'_ he thought curiously. "Would it be possible to meet him?" he asked.

"Sure, though I don't know how much good that would do to you," the woman smiled sadly. "Ao, as we call him, can't understand our language."

"At all?"

"Well, few words but only those he has learned from us. Not enough for conversation though. We can sometimes communicate with him with gestures and such, but that is pretty much it. He speaks language of his own and no one here can understand it," the woman shrugged before pointing towards the tanada. "He's probably somewhere near the rice field. The village elder asked him to tend top the rice, so he's usually there."

Ginko glanced at the rice field's direction. _'That man,'_ he thought, thinking back to the man sleeping at the bottom of the tanada. _'That was him?'_ he wondered. "You said you call him… Ao?" he asked, glancing at the woman.

"Yes. Because of his eyes," she chuckled. "I think he has a name of his own, but his language is odd and it could be that we can't even pronounce it. He doesn't seem to mind, though."

_'So the Ikioijin is really a foreigner…'_ Ginko wondered. _'That complicates things…'_ he turned back to the woman and nodded. "Thanks for your time."

"I hope you don't bother him too much. Ao is kind, but he gets a bit flustered at times when people demand answers from him and he can't even understand the questions," the woman said while returning to the vegetable patch. "Odd things happen when he gets flustered."

"Odd things?" Ginko asked curiously.

She nodded. "He makes the flowers grow. At first we thought he could do that to all life - some even though he could bring back the dead. One here… demanded Ao to revive his dead wife. Ao couldn't understand of course, so he got panicked and…" she chuckled and pointed at the village. "And that grew. It was just a sprout a week ago…"

Ginko followed where she was pointing, but couldn't see anything. Then, as he looked up, he realised. There was impressive looking cherry tree growing in the middle of the village, one that could've easily been mistaken for a tree that was at least decades old. _'I see,'_ he mused thoughtfully, sucking a lungful of smoke through his cigarette. _'I suppose that proves that his power is for real… not that the rice fields leave much evidence to be required…'_ he glanced at the woman and thanked her again, before heading back to the tanada.

_'It's strange, though,'_ he mused while heading down the narrow path. _'Usually when something like this happens, people react in certain ways…'_ people usually were either frightened of this sort of things, or they worshipped the people causing it. He had seen dozens of examples and read hundreds of records of mushi-infected people ending as subjects of worship because of the powers they gained from their symbiosis. Yet the woman seemed completely at ease at the thought of Ikioijin. And the man himself seemed to be happily dozing off in middle of a green patch, not exactly the sort of behaviour one would expect from a god.

_'Though considering he can't understand what people are saying, he might not even know what people think of him. It is still somewhat strange…'_ Ginko frowned, _'…that no one hasn't taken advantage of this situation.'_ That was the usual reaction too. Usually even a lesser "power" was enough for someone to happily step forward to reap the rewards from a following or worship. _'And some of the records of Ikioijin do tell of a worship that grew around them…'_ Yet that didn't seem to be the case here. How curious.

He found the man exactly from where he had left him, sleeping in a patch of tall grass, curled to his side. While approaching the slumbering figure, Ginko took the time to examine the man more thoroughly. Aside from the rather nice yukata, the man didn't seem sacred in any way. His bare feet were full of grass stains and he was holding onto the grass around him like child holding onto a toy. His hair was short and messy, sticking to every possible direction. But what caught Ginko's eyes quickly was something he had missed at first. The man wore a pair of eye glasses.

_'Interesting,'_ he mused while sitting to the ground beside the slumbering man. Leaning forward he saw that not only were they really a pair of glasses, and not a single monocle like the one Adashino had, but they were rather nice pair too. Not something you could get locally. _'I wonder if he had them with him when he came here…'_

The records of the Ikioijin all began the same way. The Ikioijin appeared out of nowhere, talking language no one had heard of. They looked strange, foreign, and yet no one could pin point where they were from. By the time few of them had learned to speak local language, they usually were so deep into their respective cults that nothing they said could be taken seriously. Some of them had tried to assure that they came from another world, but considering how intricate religious stories could get at times, it was hard to say anything to one direction or another.

_'Still… the Ikioijin are unique in many ways,'_ Ginko mused. There was been handful of the Ikioijin cases, but despite the fact that few mushishi of the time had gotten the chance to examine them, there was no record of the cause. It wasn't Kouki nor was it Koumyakusuji, or any mushi commonly known to cause such a life-enhancing effect, yet it was something similar. One Mushishi, though it was one known for love for sake and wild stories, had even called the Ikioijin "a human-like mushi that everyone can see"…

Ginko stared up to the sky while continuing to idly smoke his cigarette. The Ikioijin were rather common some centuries ago - at one point there had been over twenty of them. In the last centuries though, they had gotten rarer and rarer until mushishi had began believing them to be nothing but a myth - or effect of an incredible mushi which had since gone extinct. It would've stayed like that, hadn't it been for the appearance of one Ikioijin that had been recorded ten years earlier.

However the records of that incident had been very odd. The man had been slightly mad, or so the records said. He had been known for studying trees and shaving their branches, though no one had ever figured what he had wanted to do with them. He had tried to constantly do something with them, though, waving them around often. The records all ended oddly, in any case. The mushishi who had been studying the man had written that in the end the man had given up with whatever he had tried to do, and walked into a forest. And, just before the mushishi had lost the sight of him, the man had turned into some sort of bear-like animal.

How trustworthy that record was, Ginko had no idea. However one thing was sure - this was unique chance. Ikioijin were rare, he was incredibly lucky to have even heard of one existing during his life time, not to mention about meeting one.

_'Waiting him to wake up might end up being a pain, though. The man seems to sleep like a log,'_ he mused, looking at the slumbering man thoughtfully. While wondering where the man stayed for night, if the village had offered him a house or something, he picked a long blade of grass and reaching out to poke the Ikioijin's ear with it. "Oi, wake up, would you? I wanna have a talk with you…" he poked the man's ear again.

The man in the grass twitched, letting out of sound of discontent, before opening his eyes - and slapping his hand over his ear like trying to kill a bug. Then, blinking, the man glanced at him with surprise, breaking into a yawn while sitting up. Then he murmured something completely incomprehensible, an apology judging by the tone.

"I guess it's true. You really speak a foreign language," Ginko sighed, eying the man's face thoughtfully. His features were foreign but not disgustingly so. His eyes had odd shape, and the brilliant green colour was brighter than one would except to see with locals - Ginko being one of the notable exceptions. The man also had a scar in his forehead and what looked like few days' stubble on his chin. "You look human enough though," he murmured. Mushi rarely, if ever, scarred. Or grew a beard.

The Ikioijin called Ao - aptly named, his green eyes seemed to be almost glowing in the sunlight - gave him a curious look, looking up to Ginko's white hair and his green eye before glancing at his clothes. He seemed to arrive to the same conclusion most people did - not a local. Ginko didn't mind, though. It was something of a relief when people could tell with a first glance that he wasn't from around.

Then the man did something curious. He held his hand out as if to hand something, before motioning at himself and then making lifting motion with both of his hands before finally motioning at Ginko. Ginko blinked with confusion before realising that the man had probably developed a simple sign language to communicate. Handing out something, himself, lifting motion and Ginko. Offering, himself, lift, Ginko. _Can I help you_?

Ginko had no idea how to answer. He had many, many questions but he doubted a simple sign language would be enough to communicate them. He decided to start simply, and motioned at the man while asking, "Ao?" When the man nodded, he motioned at himself and said "Ginko." While the man smiled and nodded in understanding, Ginko wondered how to explain to the man who he was and what he wanted.

After moment of thought, he pointed at himself and said, "Mushishi."

"Mushi…shi?" the man asked confusedly.

_'I guess he doesn't know what a mushi is,'_ Ginko mused before taking the backpack off his back and opening the box's door. Quickly he pulled out a scroll about the very basics of mushi, before rolling it open and showing it to Ao. "Mushi," he said, motioning at the simple drawings of the creatures.

"Oh," the Ikioijin murmured in realisation, before looking around. Then he motioned at a chain of airborne mushi which had been just passing over them. "Mushi?" he asked.

"Yes," Ginko nodded, glancing at the chain which was already passing over the tanada. _'He can see mushi? Well, that eases things,'_ he thought with relief while taking out a simple magnifying class and hoping the man knew what it was. He held it upon the mushi drawings. "Mushishi," he said again, motioning at himself.

Ao blinked and then nodded slowly. After a moment of thought he frowned and pointed at himself. "Mushi?" he asked almost worriedly.

"I don't know," Ginko answered, making a rather exaggerated shrugging motion, before making the offering motion Ao had made earlier before motioning at himself. "Can I," he said, holding the magnifying class at the man, "study," he said and then motioned at Ao, "you?"

The Ikioijin blinked. "Study," he murmured, reaching out to touch the magnifying class with a single finger before motioned at himself. "Ao… Mushi?"

"To see if you are mushi or if there is a Mushi in you," Ginko nodded, painstakingly signing the entire sentence in simple gestures. It took few tries and he had to reach pretty far to invent a sign for _if_ and _in you_, but he managed after bit of trying. He repeated the signs now established as _can I_ again before adding a _please_ in which he clasped his hands together and bowed his head slightly. Then he waited eagerly to see what the man would answer.

The man seemed to think about it for a while "Yes," the man said with a nod, adding _you can_ motions and smiling, though rather nervously.

Ginko smiled, before holding his hand. After a confused moment, Ao held out his own for Ginko to take. The Ikioijin said nothing while Ginko tried his heart beat curiously. _'Seems pretty normal to me,'_ he mused after moment of feeling the steady beats. Mushi pretending to be human rarely had such details as a heart beat. _'If he was a mushi, not so many people would be able to see him anyway. It doesn't exclude the theory that he is under effect of a mushi… I wonder though…'_

It was said that Ikioijin had some control over their powers. Did Ao? Looking up to the confused man, Ginko couldn't see any hint of any sort of divine power or knowledge. It still didn't hurt to test it. "Can you," Ginko stared, signing the words as he spoke them, "make," another new word, he signed it as making something with his fingers, "the plants," he motioned at the greenery round them, "grow?" he finished, making up lifting motion with his hands.

Ao frowned thoughtfully, glancing at the grass around them. Then he closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, before reaching out to place his palms against the ground. Ginko blinked, his eyes widening slightly as the grass began to sprout out a little faster right in front of his eyes. It wasn't as fast as the stories told, but he could still _see_ it with naked eye.

"Incredible," he whispered, glancing up to the Ikioijin who was biting his lower lip in concentration, before soon letting out a huff of breath and opening his eyes. The grass slowed down and grew still again, now few inches taller than before. _'So, it takes some effort,'_ Ginko mused. _'But he can do it consciously…'_

The effect looked fascinatingly like effect of Kouki. The pace was must faster, though, and the reach slightly lesser, but it was similar. _'Maybe…'_ Ginko wondered as an idea came to him, before turning away and taking a bottle out of his luggage, along with a sake dish. Placing the dish to the ground, he poured some of the precious Kouki he carried with him to the dish. "Do you know this?" he asked, acting the sentence in awkward signs.

Ao stared at the faintly glowing liquid in wonder before shaking his head. He shrugged his shoulders, motioning at the liquid and looking at Ginko curiously, apparently wanting to know what it was.

"Kouki," the mushishi said. "A sort of mushi…" he trailed away before motioning at the river near by and then at the plants and at the two of them. "Water of life."

"Oh," the man murmured in wonder, eyeing the liquid again. Then he shook his head again, as the idea apparently rang no bells in his memory.

"Well, I suppose the mushishi studying Ikioijin long ago have already tried this," Ginko murmured, pouring the Kouki carefully back to its container and pushing the stopped back to its place. _'They must've tried asking whether the Ikioijin knew the Koumyakusuji too… so that is no use either…'_ Well, that was fine. He wouldn't have even known where to begin to describe the Koumyakusuji anyway.

There was still an investigation to be held, however. While Ao eyed him confusedly, Ginko gathered his things back into his luggage and closed the door. "Can we go inside, somewhere?" Ginko asked, signing the words and inventing a new ones for _go_, _inside_ and _house_. "I need space to work with."

Ao nodded, standing up and bushing the blades of grass from his clothes, before searching through the tall grass for his sandals. He didn't wear them though - by the looks of the bruising around his toes, he wasn't used to sandals. Instead he headed up the hill bare foot, walking among the grass.

_'Like true god of life, huh,'_ Ginko mused while following him.

When they got to the village, few people greeted the spectacled man, who awkwardly waved back at them but didn't return their greetings verbally. While Ginko wondered if he simply didn't know the proper ones or was afraid of mispronouncing them - the few words he had spoken had sounded a bit awkward - two of the village people approached them.

"You there," the one closest said, eying Ginko. "What are you doing with Ao? What do you want?"

"Ah, excuse me," Ginko said, realising that it would probably make people nervous, having a stranger around someone like Ao. "I'm a mushishi," he said, hoping to alleviate any worries with that. "My name is Ginko. I mean no harm; I'm merely here to see if I can figure out the source of Ao's powers."

_'Though on other hand, that might not be a good idea either,'_ he thought belatedly. Along with mushi related worship there was usually added element of people fighting tooth and nail against people trying to figure out the truth. If he'd discover the source of the Ikioijin's power, it could ruin the possible worship… if there was any.

"A mushishi, huh?" the older of the two men murmured, giving Ginko a curious look while Ao looked between them a bit worriedly. "We used to have mushishi coming and going here back when the mountain to the east was still one of those channels of life places. You think Ao's powers come from a mushi?"

"Possibly," Ginko murmured, eying the two with wonder. _'Hoo, interesting,'_ he mused. _'There was a Koumyakusuji here? If mushishi used to frequent here, that explains why they don't think Ao's powers are somehow divine… they already know and believe in the existence of mushi.'_ It was rather refreshing, not having to explain himself. "I'm here to find out whether or not there is a mushi involved."

"You think that Ao's mushi is dangerous?" the younger men murmured worriedly. "I heard about the mushi before, they cause all kinds of things, don't they?"

"Well, not all mushi are harmful," Ginko said. _'Though, mushi capable of this… could have some serious side effects…'_ he thought. "And I don't even know yet if there is a mushi involved. However if there are negative side effects, I will find out."

"Very well," the older of the two villagers nodded. "We better let the rest around here know so that they won't be scare by you… Are you going to be staying at Ao's place? His house is pretty small, it might get crowded," the man motioned at the village. "There's an inn here, though. It's run by my son. You should go there. They don't have many customers anyway."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind," Ginko chuckled at the advertising before turning to follow Ao again. The spectacled man gave them a confused look but at Ginko's careless shrug turned to continue leading the mushishi towards his house.

Ao's home turned out to be a small hut at the edge of the village, which had apparently been abandoned long ago, and then repaired. Ginko had a feel that the village had done it for the man, making the house liveable for him. _'It is really small,'_ he mused. It was enough for a one man, but as the place didn't even have more than two rooms, it was probably a bit crowded for two. _'Well, it will do,'_ he mused. He had no interest of paying for lodgings when he could stay somewhere for free - and he had worked in much worse conditions before.

It was easy to tell that it was place of Ikioijin, though. The roof was covered in moss and grass and there were vines and bushes climbing up the walls. Inside the corners of the rooms were also growing moss. It didn't make the place uninhabitable though. The place was well cleaned despite all the green stuff, and, even if the floor was growing moss, it didn't seem drafty. Ao apparently didn't mind the greenery in the least - judging by looks of one patch of grassy moss growing not far from the main room's hearth, he didn't even sleep on a futon.

_'Though I guess, being Ikioijin, he can't even sleep on anything but something green - not unless he wants whatever he sleeps in to start growing weeds and moss,'_ Ginko mused while crouching beside the moss-futon. It looked rather cosy actually. _'I guess there are worse places to sleep in…'_

Ao looked down to him curiously before heading off. Not long after, he dragged a table into the room from the smaller one, motioning it to Ginko before making the motions of _for_ and _make_ which apparently also applied to _work_ now.

"Work table, huh. Thanks," Ginko signed the words awkwardly to the man before starting to spread his equipment around, taking out his precious microscope before spreading a fresh scroll and papers to the table for notes. Then, with Ao's permission, he started his investigation. He already knew it was going to be an interesting one.

x

Few days later, Ginko took a break from the work to wander around the village. He had learned a lot and, in the mean while, he had learned nothing. What he had learned that Ao wasn't the Ikioijin's real name but for some reason the man seemed to prefer it to his real name - which he refused to speak. He had also learned few words of Ao's language, though they did him little good and judging by Ao's laughter every time he had tried to speak them, he didn't quite manage to pronounce them right. He had also learned that Ao ate and drank, slept, defecated, had numerous scars and birthmarks and, by the looks of it, was completely human.

What Ginko had not learned was any evidence of any sort of mushi involvement. Aside from the fact that Ao could see them, he seemed to have no interaction with them. His blood was clean, his hair showed no signs of any odd growth or even elevated or lowered nourishment levels. Even the few tissue samples Ginko had taken taught him nothing. His ears, his eyes, his throat, his nostrils, everything was clean. His body showed no signs of mushi - and Ginko had checked very thoroughly. It was a blessing Ao seemed to be as curious as he was and didn't mind the whole thing.

"Ginko-san!" one of Ao's neighbours greeted him. "Good afternoon. Can we help you somehow?"

"Nah. I'm just taking a walk to try and clear my head," he answered. The investigation was going nowhere and rethinking the same things over and over wouldn't help him. He needed something new and one could stare at microscope only for so long.

"Well, once you head back, stop by. I have some veggies for you and Ao," the neighbour said. "They're growing like weeds, thanks to him living so near."

"I can imagine," Ginko snorted, glancing at the man's overly enthusiastic garden. "I'll stop by on my way back," he promised while heading onwards. "See you."

He had managed to chart the reach of Ao's growth enhancing effect, though. It wasn't much, only about fifty metres. However, due to the fact that Ao seemed to have noticed it as well and thus wandered around a lot, the entire village and its lands were enveloped in it. Ao's neighbours enjoyed most of the affect as the man spend most time in the house, but no one was really excluded from it. The villagers themselves seemed to accept it as something like a good season, rather than supernatural blessing, though. They knew Ao was the reason, but didn't get exactly excited about it.

_'These people are half expecting me to take Ao away,'_ Ginko mused. Already when the people had first found about Ao's power, they had started wait for a mushishi to turn up to investigate. Frowning slightly, he crouched down beside a small fire few of the villagers were using to burn the weeds gathered from their gardens. After using the fire to light a cigarette, Ginko stood up again. _'I suppose they realised from the beginning that this sort of thing is too good to last… powers like these don't come without drawbacks…'_

Though so far he hadn't found any and though some mushishi would've taken Ao away for further study, Ginko didn't really see the point yet. Sure, there were places where he could probably study Ao more thoroughly with better equipment, but he didn't think he would find anything more than he had so far. If it was a mushi, it was incredibly hard to detect. It wasn't equipment issue anymore anyway, as he had stopped believing a mushi to be a cause.

_'Ao's effect to me seems to be completely natural to him,'_ Ginko mused with a sigh. The more he thought about it, the more he believed it to be natural phenomenon, unrelated to mushi. It was rather like a Left Hand of God, except more general and instead of creating something, Ao simply enhanced the plant life around him. _'Or, if he gets very temperamental, he takes a sprout and turns it into a fully grown tree,'_ Ginko thought while eying the cherry tree ponderously.

It was bit of a disappointment, though. It would've been interesting to discover a mushi which turns a person into something capable of making plants grow. _'Though there are still lot of things I don't know yet…'_ Ginko admitted. He still didn't know how exactly the enhancing effect worked. Was Ao giving the plants around him some sort of supernatural nutrient or maybe simply encouraging them to feed on the soil quicker than they normally would've? And what would happen afterwards - would things simply go back to normal, or would the effect grow? And in worse case scenario, would the plants drain all the nutrients of the ground because of Ao and then leave the soil barren? The records of Ikioijin didn't think so, but who knew… there could be drawbacks that hadn't been discovered.

_'Either way, the investigation isn't over yet,'_ Ginko mused, exhaling a cloud of smoke at nearby cluster of mush. As the smoke tightened around the cluster and broke it apart due to the fact that there were too many mushi in it to hold at once, he wondered whether Ao's power was like that. Would it hold or would it eventually fade? Was it permanent like the Left Hand of God, or something temporal? The records indicated towards former, but they weren't hundred percent sure… as all the Ikioijin died within a certain amount of time.

As the thought trailed away, Ginko's eyes were drawn to a man walking towards him. "Hm?"

"Ginko-san. Do you know where Ao is?" the man, one of the village elders, asked.

"He should be home - he was there when I left not long ago," the mushishi answered, looking at the man curiously. "Is there something wrong?"

"A man from neighbouring village has come. Apparently his village lost some of their crops in a storm lately and by the looks of it they won't be able to feed themselves following winter," the man answered with a worried frown. "When they heard of Ao's power, they sent a messenger, hoping that Ao could lend his power to them and enrich the crops they have left, so that they can manage."

Ginko blinked. Ao wouldn't mind, he knew. The man was oddly giving and seemed to think that putting his power to use was the only right thing to do - that was why he wandered so much and had his daily nap at the tanada. However if Ao would leave, that would hinder his research… _'Though on other hand, who says I can't go with him?'_ he mused, inhaling through his cigarette. _'Seeing the effect of his power like that, from very beginning, could be interesting too…'_ And maybe offer some clue he was missing so far.

"Alright," he said. "I'll go get Ao and explain the situation to him. Where is the messenger?"

"At the inn," the villager answered. "Thank you Ginko-san."

"Thank Ao if he decides to go," the mushishi denied while turning to head back. "We shouldn't take long."

Ao was indeed where he had left, sitting at the porch of his small house and trying to persuade a patch of moss not to grow so fond of the doorway. He was mumbling something incoherent in his own language while detaching the moss of the wood. As Ginko got closer, he looked up and smiled. "Need… something, Ginko?" he asked awkwardly, having learned the words from the mushishi.

"A man has come from neighbouring village," Ginko said while gesturing the words as he did, the awkward signs coming a bit easier now that they had established more of them. "They have had an accident with their crops and need your help."

Ao repeated the gesture for destruction, looking confused. "Acci…dent?" he asked

"They lost their crops," Ginko explained, gesturing _other people_ and _to lose_ before adding the gesture of _rice_. "At the other village," he added, signing the words for _in a place_ and _other_ before making the circling motion which between them had started to represent communities, villages and groups of people. It came a bit mismatched, but they were both used to stuttering communication already.

The spectacled man nodded in understanding, standing up, before making walking motion with his fingers before adding a directing motion after it. "Let's go," he said awkwardly.

_'He learns fast,'_ Ginko mused. Of course it helped that the man _knew_ how to talk and how communication generally worked, but still. The pace in which they had invented the sign language and the speed the man was picking new words was rather remarkable for a grown up man. A child he would've understood - they learned naturally fast - but that speed slowed down with grown up men and women. While they headed for the in, he wondered if that could be included to the Ikioijin effect.

"Ao!" the innkeeper called at the sight of them, stepping forward to motion the man to come forward. "Come. This man here has something to tell you." Ao gave the man a puzzled look, but moved closer as the man beaconed towards him.

"I can work as a translator," Ginko offered, knowing that despite knowing few words here and there, Ao still wasn't nowhere near mastering the language - the only reason he understood Ginko so well was because they had the sign language backing their communication. "It will be easier that way."

The story the messenger had to say was pretty simple, though it still it took some time to explain the situation to Ao fully - mostly because the messenger kept interrupting Ginko in middle of signing to add things. They had poor water reserves and most of their tanada had been ruined and thought they were fixing them, there was no way to save the crops, and even the ones that had been saved had still been damaged - and they also had a pest problem… and so on. Normal problems, no doubt important to a farmer, but Ginko still would've preferred him to stay quiet until he managed to get the message across.

"That's about it," Ginko murmured, aiding the words with sign. He finished with motioning at Ao and then brushing his forehead. "Do you understand?"

The man nodded, looking thoughtful. He was quiet and still for a moment before only asking one thing. He communicated it silently, making a shrugging motion then holding his hands as if to enclose something in them, before motioning at Ginko and making a motion like holding a magnifying class and trying to get it to the right distance. _What about your investigation_? He seemed to have decided to go without even giving the matter any consideration. Go figure.

Ginko motioned at himself, made a walking and directing motion with his hand, before grasping his hands together like holding hands before motioning at Ao. _I'll go with you._ He added a shrugging motion before clasping his hands together half heartedly and bowing his head. _If you don't mind?_

Ao smiled and touched his chest before grasping his hands together and bowing his head slightly.

"You've gotten pretty far with this signing thing, huh?" the innkeeper murmured in wonder. "What did that last thing mean?"

"It's okay, it's good to be in company," Ginko translated. "Or something like it." The sign language had gotten rather complicated and was something to be proud of, but he still would've preferred if they could actually talk the same language. "I'm going with Ao," he said to the people around them. "We should be ready to leave… tomorrow?" he glanced at Ao, signing the question to the man.

"Tomorrow," Ao nodded, standing up and making a closing motion with his hands which meant packing. Ginko nodded standing up as well.

"Thank you," the messenger said, bowing his head almost to the floor. "Thank you, Ikioijin-sama. Thank you."

Ao frowned, looking slightly displeased with the words, before turning away to leave. Ginko, after throwing a glance at the gathering people, followed him, wondering if the reason why Ao wasn't worshipped was because the man simply didn't want to be. Ginko hadn't noticed it before, but it really did seem like Ao was adverse against the idea. _'How interesting…'_

"Don't do that," the innkeeper whispered behind him. "Ao doesn't like that…"

Ginko glanced at his investigation subject, before clearing his throat and speaking. "You don't like being called a god?" he asked, signing the words and inventing a new one for god.

Ao seemed to understand and shook his head in answer. He motioned at himself, touching his lips and making a wobbly motion with his hand before touching the top of his head in the new sign for _god_ before touching the back of his hand. _I was called something like a god before,_ the signs meant. He frowned and shook his head before motioning at himself and making a cutting motion. It either meant that he hadn't liked it or they had been wrong about him.

"So you told the people here to not worship you?" Ginko murmured. Ao had been lucky to end up in this village. _'Let's hope the other one is as kind.'_

**x**

The journey from one village to another took three days. The mountain path was rocky and difficult, something to which Ginko and their guide, the messenger from the neighbouring village, were more than adjusted to, but Ao seemed to have difficulties with it. While watching the Ikioijin walking along the rocky paths and trying to find sure footing, Ginko got the impression that he rarely traversed in difficult terrain. Ao didn't complain, though. In fact, despite the difficulty and the fact that his feet were almost bleeding because of the sandals, he seemed to embrace the challenge.

The journey offered more than challenge, though. Usually Ginko's and Ao's interactions were dominated by the investigation - mostly because Ginko always worked with a time limit. The longer he stayed in one place, the more danger that place was in, after all, so he had wanted to get the investigation done as quickly as possible - especially after realising how little information he was discovering. Because of that, they hadn't had chance for much more than mushi related conversations, and the usual questions and answers relating to the investigation.

During the three day journey, though, the investigation was more or less on hold. This gave Ginko the chance to do something he had been itching to do from the beginning - teach Ao how to speak his language. Whilst they walked in the mountain paths and looked for a way to cross valleys, he picked things and motioned at things he couldn't pick, and spoke their names, having Ao repeat them until he knew how to pronounce them as correctly as he could.

_'Can't say I've ever taught a person to speak before,'_ Ginko mused as they walked, tugging on his shirt with his fingers and speaking it's name. the man repeated the words few times until Ginko nodded in satisfaction and tugged on his pants and repeated the process. _'I figured it would be harder…'_

Ao's eagerness to learn probably helped. The man seemed to be bothered greatly by his inability to communicate properly, so he was hanging on Ginko's tutelage very intently. Ginko figured he was probably teaching the man all wrong, starting with names of things rather than sentence structure and whatever people were supposed to begin with - but he supposed that considering the fact that it was his first time trying, no one could really blame him.

Some things were easy, like every day items, the things they passed by, the things they could see. Colours, motions, effects were a bit harder, and when they got into the immaterial things like thoughts, emotions, memories, beliefs, knowledge and so on, it got nearly impossible. It was hard to explain a thing you couldn't quite communicate through in the first place - and signs for _childhood memory_ was probably the most difficult one he had came up yet.

Ao seemed to enjoy it, and he was picking the language up quickly enough. Eventually he managed to learn enough to start asking. "What is that?" was the first coherent sentence he managed, soon followed by "What colour is that?" and "How do you say this?" His pronouncing was of course a little off and would probably always remain so, though. Judging by the samples he had given, Ao's native language used sounds Ginko had never heard of and couldn't pronounce at all, so Ao's tongue and sound chords were probably more adjusted to different sort of speaking. Due to that, he would never speak Ginko's language "perfectly". Ginko had a feeling that Ao would speak his language better than he would speak Ao's language if the positions were reversed, though.

All the while this was going on, their guide watched and listened to them but didn't much interrupt. He probably remained in too much of a awe of Ao - and the fact that the Ikioijin woke up every morning surrounded by grass and weeds didn't help. Ginko's explanation of mushi - which had been given more to Ao's benefit than the guide's, though - didn't help either, and the man still remained in the belief that Ao was some sort of god.

_'Well, I suppose not all can be as rational about it as the previous village,'_ Ginko mused, though he did feel slight sympathy towards Ao who seemed to have harder and harder time with the guide's attitude towards him. _'Maybe we should try something else…'_ If trying to explain that these things sometimes happened with mushi involved - even if there wasn't one involved now - then maybe trying to make Ao appear more human…

_'Let's hope I won't insult him, though,'_ Ginko added mentally before clearing his throat to catch Ao's attention. Then he spoke, signing the words, "The more you speak the more familiar you should get with the language, so… will you tell me about yourself as an exercise?" he asked, his hands moving now more confidently through the familiar signs. "What kind of family do you come from?"

Ao looked a bit taken back by the request and for a while as they walked he seemed to think about it very seriously. By the time he finally nodded, they had walked almost two hundred meters. "I… raised by… relative," he started awkwardly, signing the words more smoothly as he spoke, adding the circle motion of _group of people_ to relative. "Real family… dead when young…"

"You were raised by relatives because your real parents died when you were young?" Ginko asked to clarify, and the man nodded in agreement.

Ao smiled rather mirthlessly. "No happy… childhood memories, but," he searched for the words for a moment before annoyed making the sign for _youth_, "was better. I… study in," he searched for words again before frowning. "How do you say?" he asked, making the motions for _study_ and _group of people_.

"Study in group… school? You studied in a school with group of people?" Ginko asked, inventing new sign for _school_ by mixing the _study_ and _group_ signs.

"Yes. Study in… school," Ao nodded with gratitude, repeating the last word few time curiously. "For… um…year," he added, holding all the fingers in his right hand, and two in his left.

"Seven," Ginko smiled before realising that he hadn't explained numbers. He quickly did, counting the numbers from one to ten, and showing the number with his fingers. He had to repeat few times for Ao to get them right, and he suspected he needed to explain them again so that Ao would know how to go from ten to upwards, but that could wait until they'd settle down for night and he could take out writing supplies.

"So, you studied for seven years? What were you studying?" Ginko asked curiously. He hadn't heard of schools lasting so long - usually schools only taught people to read and write and maybe to calculate, but they were rare, usually seen only in bigger towns, and usually they only lasted for some months or however long the students took to learn. The only tutelage which lasted years usually was apprenticeship under a master.

Ao shrugged. "Skill… my people," he said, motioning at himself as he did. "All… learn. All taught. Aah…" he trailed away again, frowning with irritation. "What word…" he murmured, making the sign for _generations_ a few times in series. "Grandfather taught, father taught, me taught…"

"All taught for generations? Hm… tradition?" Ginko asked. "Going to this school was a tradition?" he specified. _'There are such schools, such traditions in his land? Interesting. He must come from a big community for school to be a tradition,'_ he mused.

"Yes!" Ao nodded in triumph. "Tradition. All learn. Old school, old tradition," he smiled before frowning. "Ao … taught before, another school, but… seven year school… more important," he said, looking rather dissatisfied with the sentence. "Special."

Ginko blinked as a thought came to him. He had found Ao from a small peasant village. But that didn't necessarily mean that Ao himself was a peasant. "This seven year school, is it a school for… the noble?" he asked curiously, before quickly signing the words when the other gave him a confused look. "Your grandfather learned there, your father learned there, and you learned there. Was it a privilege just for your family?"

Ao considered the words for a moment before nodding with slight hesitation and making a wobbly motion with his hand. "Not alone," he said in disagreement to his words. "Four ten start… All learn seven years, four ten… each year. But not _all_ can. Takes…" he trailed a way with a frown, his hands stopping in mid-sign. "Takes special… person. Not all people… let in. Just special people."

Ginko nodded thoughtfully, before glancing at their guide who was listening. _'This won't help Ao there, though,'_ he mused with slight annoyance. _'To know that Ao has learned in special environment might only boost the belief that he is special himself…'_ he trailed away as a thought came to him. Special people. Aside from the Ikioijin effect and the fact he was a foreigner, there was one more thing that made Ao special. "Ao, your special people, can they all see mushi?" he asked, motioning at a mushi they were just passing by, which had tangled itself in a bush.

"Yes," the man nodded, reaching to touch the snake like mushi curiously. Then he shook his head. "No."

"Yes and no?" Ginko asked confusedly.

"Mushi… different," Ao shrugged, making a bit exasperated motions as he searched for right words. "We see… things. Like mushi. Not mushi."

_'Like mushi but not mushi? What is that supposed to mean?'_ Ginko wondered, giving the other a curious look. _'Well, either way… entire school of people who can see mushi…'_ "Does that mean that your school teaches people to be kind of mushishi?" he asked. He, like all mushishi, had been taught personally by one master until he had known the tricks of the trade well enough to manage on his own. The idea of a school of sort of mushishi… It was a rather awe striking and in a way terrifying idea.

The spectacled man gave him a surprised look before laughing. "Yes!" he nodded. "Kind of mushishi. Majikku-shi!" he chuckled.

_'Majikku?'_ Ginko wondered whether it was whatever Ao had learned in his school, some sort of foreign version of mushi perhaps - or whatever they called mushi or mushi effect there? He would ask about it later. "Ao, were you an Ikioijin then?" he asked seriously, signing the words as he spoke them. "Could you make plants grow back then?"

Ao glanced at him before shaking his head. "Start here. Never… happen before. Never heard… Ikioijin, before. New thing," he frowned, looking ahead of them. "All new thing."

The mushishi had a odd impression he wasn't just talking about the Ikioijin effect. He wanted to ask what he meant. Actually, he wanted to ask many things. Like whether or not Ao knew how he had ended up from his land to this one, if there had been some sort of transporting… effect. Ao hadn't came to these lands by his own doing, that was for sure. The lands, the people, the customs, the language, everything was unheard of for Ao and utterly foreign.

_'It's strange, though… If Ao could see Mushi - or kind of mushi - before, then why didn't he know them in the beginning?'_ Ginko mused. He hadn't thought of that before but now that he did, it bothered him slightly. Ao was curious of mushi in the way only people completely new of them were and yet hadn't been alarmed by mushi, he had from the start known not all could see them. Now the man said he had seen them always, but that contradicted with his actions. Or was it that _kind of mushishi_ thing, then?

_'The ability to see mushi is a perception issue,'_ Ginko thought. There were hundreds of studies made of the matter and Ginko had studied enough of them to know well enough what caused it. _'Mushi exist in vague dimension,'_ he mused. _'Able to interact with this world, unable to interact with this world, part of it, not part of it… the ability perceive them is sometimes genetic, sometimes mysteriously random…'_

He narrowed his eyes in thought. He hard heard of people able to see only certain sort of mushi. Sometimes when there was certain element in local water of local food, people could see certain mushi whilst remaining blind to others. It could be… that the ability Ao's family possessed was similar. Due to some genetic trick, they could perceive certain mushi. Then Ao had been transported, he had gained the power of Ikioijin… and started seeing all mushi. So he was adjusted to odd things, but mushi were still new to him?

_'Feels like I'm grasping straws here,'_ Ginko thought irritably, but he didn't want to ask to make sure with the guide around - the man was already drawing irritating conclusions. _'I'll ask Ao about it later when we're alone,'_ he decided before glancing at the Ikioijin. "Well, shall we continue with new words?" he asked, motioning around them. Ao nodded, apparently thankful that he didn't need to continue trying to speak.

The rest of the journey continued pretty much similarly, at moderate pace with Ginko teaching more words to Ao who picked up the words fast. Their guide rarely took any part in their conversations, and when ever he did it was either about the journey, his village, of about Ao. The usual question about Ao was, "If he's not a god, then how do you explain his powers?" and he never accepted Ginko's explanation.

By the time they finally reached the village ruined by storm, Ginko was hoping dearly that the guide's attitude wasn't common in the village.

x

_'I guess they didn't plead their case to Ao for nothing,'_ Ginko mused as they finally came to the village. Even at a distance the damage was easy to see. Like the previous village, this one was also in a hill side with terraced rice fields surrounding them. By the looks of it, most of the tanada had came down in a landslide, making Ginko wonder just how much it had rained in the area. It took more than a little shower to ruin a well made tanada after all.

"The fields in the east side are still in somewhat good conditions, but on this one they're all ruined," their guide said, motioning at the ruined tanada. "however, the east fields are small. They won't be enough to support the village. We haven't been getting good crops in the previous years anyway, and it looks like the ones we're going to get this year are also going to be rather withered…"

"Ao should be able to fix that," Ginko murmured, peering at the village in the hilltop. It hadn't been saved from the storm either, apparently. People were fixing rooftops by the looks of it. He narrowed his eyes at one building, easy to recognise even at a distance. There was a Torii on the highest point of the village, and building which looked suspiciously like a shrine behind it. _'I guess that explains things…'_

Shrines these days were pretty rare. They used to be more popular back before the establishment of mushishi, though - back before people had started making some sense of mushi, and instead of had believed them to be gods instead. Of course, some of those beliefs still hung around, some mushi were still being worshiped as Kami, but generally it was much uncommon than belief in mushi. In all his travels, Ginko had only seen handful of shrines and most of those had been long since abandoned and were being used as something else.

As they approached the village, Ginko kept his eyes on the shrine, hoping that it wouldn't cause any problems. Knowing his luck, though… "Let's take a path near the tanada," he said, glancing at Ao who was eying the ruined rice fields thoughtfully. "So that we can see if there's anything Ao can do about them."

"Of course," the guide said, taking a thinner path towards the tanada. Not much later they were at the bottom of them, looking up to the hillside which used to be a rice field. "It started at the top, the landslide," their guide murmured, motioning up the hill. "It only happened here, though, and didn't take any lives. The top terrace was probably made poorly or something like that. After it collapsed, so did the one under it, and then the next one…"

"Hmm…" Ginko glanced around. At the outer edges, one could still see the remains of the terraces, but in the middle there was nothing but muddy slope left. Some were already in process of repairing the tanada, using hoes and shovels to fix the hill back to it's levelled state, but it didn't look like they could grow any crops there that year. What was left of the rice had been buried in the soil.

The mushishi glanced to his left where Ao had crouched to the ground to touch it thoughtfully. "Can no fix… this," the man said with a frown while burying his fingers into the soil. "Rice… no grow."

"Yeah," Ginko agreed, taking out a fresh cigarette. Ao could probably saturate the land with his power but that would only make the hill grow full of weeds. And even if the people here could fix the terraces and replant the rice, even with Ao's power it wouldn't grow fast enough to be harvested before winter. "This should make good rice field next year, though. Landslides, even small ones, can bring more nutrients to the surface," he mused. "But if there's one good rice field left, Ao should be able to do something about that."

"Vegetable… too," Ao said, looking up. "Fruit too. Rice… not all."

"True," Ginko said and glanced at their guide. "Can we go take a look at the other field now?"

"We should probably go the village first. People are waiting."

xx

Some time ago I noticed that, that at least back then, there were no crossovers between Harry Potter and Mushishi - and that was a challenge I couldn't pass by, so I started to try and figure out how it would work. This is sort of the result. Harry, at some later age due to some reason I've now forgotten, falls through the Plotdevice of Death, the Archway/Veil. The Archway doesn't lead to Death - of course, it never seems to - and instead he ends up in the Mushishi world - where his magic promptly goes out of control and now can only make plants grow. As far as plot goes, Harry (or Ao, can't remember why I had him going around with different name and what was so wrong with Harry) and Ginko were supposed to figure out that Sirius had came through as well, and then they were supposed to go on a quest to find him - only to find at the end that Sirius has long since turned into a tree, and that Harry would turn into one as well, in the next ten years or so.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	13. Imperfect, HP x Naruto cross

Warnings: somewhat evil Harry, offscreen apocalypse and bad language. Harry Potter x Naruto Crossover. Takes place way way post Deathly Hallows and about three years before Naruto was born.

**Imperfect**

**Prologue**

Harry felt like laughing. And not just laughing but throwing his head back in that full blown, over the top crazy cackle that he had once heard from the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange and the lot. In the situation he was in it would've been both ironically fitting and sorely misplaced so he settled for sort of miserable chuckle somewhere in between of mirthless amusement and sarcasm.

"I should've known," he muttered when he found that the chuckle didn't quite express his emotions well enough. It still wasn't quite enough though. He wanted to throw his hands up and ask skies what he had done to deserve it and punch a wall - or punch _Dumbledore_ and maybe Snape and most definitely Voldemort, several times. And at the same time he wanted to laugh and take a swig of Firewhiskey and toast Fate for she had managed to screw him once more. Side ways. With a _goddamn sword_ which maybe belonged to Gryffindor. And still had Basilisk venom in it.

"Harry," Hermione started, hesitated and then closed her mouth, settling instead to give him soulful look of sympathetic understanding. And the look was possibly the worse thing of all because when _Hermione_ was sympathetic, it meant you were doomed. It meant that she couldn't help, that she had considered all options and came up with nothing. And when Hermione came up with nothing, everyone else would too.

After wallowing in his mismatched emotions for a moment, Harry chuckled again. Then once more just for the effect, before looking up to her. "Alright. How did you figure this out?" he asked. "No, don't answer that, you probably used some weird gimmick from Department of Mysteries. I don't even want to know. What made you do it?"

She scratched her neck awkwardly and took seat next to him. She even reached out and took his hand to hers. More of that soulful understanding. She had gotten it down to an art form. "You have been… changing since the war ended," she finally answered. "At first I thought it was just because the war ended and Voldemort was dead and you could breathe easier. I thought you were just loosening up after all the tension, but…"

There was a moment of silence as she traced the back of his palm with her thump. Finally Harry frowned. "But what?" he asked irritably.

Hermione gave him a meaningful look. "Harry, you left for an year right after the war was over - no one knew where you went or what you did. You didn't even sent a word back to us - honestly, many of us thought you had left the wizarding world for good. You gave poor Ginny a heart attack pulling that stunt!"

Harry scoffed. "I wanted some time to think, some peace and quiet," he said. "And I wanted to see the world, as you well know I hadn't stepped out of Britain all my life. And I remember telling you this all when came back."

"And right when you came back you had a fight with Ginny - after which you two haven't spoken more than three words to each other at a time," Hermione continued, still with that meaningful look in her eyes. "After you joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you had fight with Ron too - and me as well."

"I had work stress. You know how hard they train newbies in the Auror corps," Harry frowned.

"Hm-hmm," she nodded, clearly not believing him. "After that you started collecting books and items about Defence Against Dark Arts and duelling, and jus about every bit of offensive magic you could get your hand on. And then, eventually, you moved onto Dark Arts themselves."

"Those books aren't illegal and neither are the rest," Harry said sternly. "I bought them because I needed to learn what I was up against as an Auror."

Hermione didn't dignify that with an answer. "You studied to become Animagus, you learned Occlumency and Legilimency within a _year_, and I've seen you use Fiendfyre like it's normal bluebell flame," she continued. "And most of the security charms you use at your home these days are jinxes and curses."

"Legilimency is dead useful and you know it, I failed at becoming Animagus - and what's wrong with using offensive security? It work better than strictly defensive one. Is much more memorable for potential thieves too." He snickered at the memory of the time when some fool had tried to break into his house. It was unlikely he idiot would ever get out of St. Mungos.

"You've also became slightly malicious and I've seen you outright delight in Schadenfreude," Hermione continued as if not hearing him. "You're mean. Sometimes you're arrogant. More than once you've acted like complete jerk. For a long while now, I've noticed that you're less and less than the Harry I went to school with. It took me a long while to realise that you yourself don't seem to notice it at all."

Harry frowned. "What the hell is schaden-whatever-it-was?" he asked.

"Schadenfreude. Pleasure from misfortune of others," Hermione sighed. "Don't deny feeling it. I've the look on your face more than enough - and you _laugh_ every time you see George, Bill or Neville. Why do you think they tend to steer away from you these days?" she shook her head helplessly. "Or anyone else for that matter?"

The man was quiet. Well, he couldn't help it when it was amusing. Bill had been so damn good looking before his face had been mauled that it was just ironic - and hell, George had hole in the side of his head! From a curse that had never been meant for him for that matter! And Neville, so proud of his little "battle" scars… Harry snickered.

"There you go again," Hermione said, squeezing his hand tighter than necessary in rebuttal. "You're mean, cruel and just plain vindictive at times. As far as I know I'm the only one who still talks to you outside work - aside from Luna, but she could happily have tea with both Voldemort and Grindelwald if she got the chance. No one else can stand you these days," she was quiet for a moment before sighing. "Harry, I hate you break this to you, but you've became an asshole."

"Thanks a lot," the man glared at her before sighing with irritation. She had a point though. He had noticed that people steered away from him and that he spend more and more days alone. But he hadn't minded because people were just being jealous idiots and solitude gave him time to study and train. So essentially they were just assisting him by staying away from him, and it was kind of amusing to see how awkward people had became…

But he knew that few years back he wouldn't have found it amusing at all. Back when he had been a wimp and actually cared about what people thought of him. "So, you added all this together and ended up with result of something being wrong with him?" he asked, rolling his eyes. So, he had changed, so what? Harry didn't mind. Hermione was taking this too seriously.

"Well, into at first of course. And for a while I did think that the whole fame thing had finally gotten into your head, I've been waiting for that to happen for years," the woman snorted before frowning. "But eventually things started indicating something else, add up to different result… Eventually I loaned some equipment from the Unspeakables just to check you out and… well."

"Check me out, huh? Here I thought you and Ron were happy in your lovey dovey marriage." Harry snorted and lifted his hand to his forehead. "Weird though. If it's still in here, that bit of Voldemort's soul… why haven't I felt anything? Ever since I killed the bastard -"

"You didn't kill him, Harry, his own rebounding curse did."

"- _ever since I killed the bastard_ the scar hasn't even itched, not to mention about the twitching and searing and whole bleeding thing it used to do," Harry finished without giving her words any acknowledgement. He _had_ killed Voldemort. He had just used the moron's own curse to do it. Credit where credit was due. "Why is that?"

"Well for one, it is the last bit of Voldemort remaining. We destroyed all the Horcruxes and the bit in his reformed body was killed by his own Killing Curse. The bit inside you was all that was left, so… it has had nothing to react to," Hemione shrugged. "But it's more serious than just having the Horcrux still around because it hasn't been sitting idly still like it did for the most of your life. That Killing Curse you took willingly… did something."

"Something except what it was supposed to. It neither killed me nor the Horcrux inside me, apparently," Harry snorted.

"It might've done something to the effect, though. It might've severed the connection between that piece and the rest of the Horcruxes - which is why we don't have another Voldemort going around as wraith right now," Hermione said. "And, I think, it might've shattered the Horcrux inside you. Because it isn't acing like Horcrux is supposed to."

"And how is it supposed to act?"

"Well… if it did act like it was supposed to, Voldemort should be manifesting in you as more than personality quirks," Hermione said. "In the least you should be having black outs like Ginny did back in our second year… or at the most you should have second face growing out of your head like Quirrell did. And we both know you don't."

"How do you know?" Harry asked narrowing his eyes and making wiggly motion with his fingers towards her. "Maybe I'm Voldemort right now, controlling this body, trying to fool you."

"Don't be a idiot, Harry. You might be different, but I'd know if you were Voldemort," she sighed before furrowing her brow. "Though… I can't deny the fact that I think you're getting there. You're already showing slight sighs of obsession over magical strength and such. You're practicing new offensive magics all the time…"

"I'm _becoming_ Voldemort then?" Harry asked and snorted. He wanted to say that he just liked duelling and that he wanted to see if he could learn every offensive spell he encountered was just a hobby of sort, but figured that it wouldn't be received well. And they had already established that he was nuts, making excuses now was useless. "Sweet. My turn to try to take over the world then. I was wondering if I'd ever get a chance."

"Harry please, don't make light about this," Hermione pleaded.

"Fine, fine. I'll be serious," Harry answering, not bothering to stop the corner of his lips from curling into a sneer which, now that he thought about it, was becoming familiar expression to him. "So, what's the plan then? If I'm going evil we obviously need to stop it because obviously I will become terrible if I go evil." Terrible but _great_, if Ollivander was to be believed.

She gave him a helpless look before squeezing his hand tightly. Harry sneered at her for a moment before the expression started to slip. "There's no plan?" he asked and she shook her head. "You don't know how to stop it, do you?" he asked again just to be sure.

"Harry, if a killing curse, the most deadlier pieces of magic known to our kind, didn't destroy the Horcrux inside you…" Hermione shook her head. "And the rest of the methods we know to work on Horcruxes, well… they'd kill you."

"Yeah, I imagine even I wouldn't be able to survive being stabbed with a basilisk fang. No, wait, I have," Harry blinked as he remembered the time he had killed the said basilisk. "Hell, I _have_ been stabbed by a basilisk fang. To the arm, but stab is a stab. Fawkes healed me but…" he snorted. It had done nothing to the Horcrux back then, though. "Well, I guess that's no go either. All that's left is Fiendfyre and I doubt I'd live through that…"

There was moment of silence as Harry thought through of all the deadly magics he knew - and these days he knew lot. Hermione just looked at him helplessly. Finally the man snorted. "Well damn," he said and gave into the urge to cackle madly. He really needed to get the whiskey to toast Fate. She deserved it.

"Harry," Hermione spoke hesitatingly. "You… you do realise what this means?"

"I might, but please do tell me," he grinned at her. "Tell me what this means, other than that I'm royally fucked."

"You'll probably go dark," she answered. "And you know what Tom Riddle did when he went dark. If things continue as they have…" she swallowed nervously before taking a breath and speaking probably more bravely than she actually felt. "You're the master of the Elder Wand too. The things you could do… That… can't be allowed to happen… right?"

"How do you purpose we stop it then? You already said there's nothing we can do to kill the Horcrux inside me, unless we want to kill me too, that is," Harry answered flatly, tilting his head to the side and regarding her mockingly. "What's there to do, my brilliant Hermione whom I probably end up calling a _mudblood_ eventually, to stop me from going off the deep end?"

Her fingers tightened around his. "Well… you can't be allowed to continue. You… simplest way to stop you would be to, well, lock you away," she said and then hurriedly added, "at least until I figure out how to stop it, how to… how to get rid of the Horcrux without killing you."

"Basically you need time to invent some way to cure me of this disease of darkness and in the meanwhile… you want to put me into a nuthouse?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "You think that padded walls will able to hold me?"

She smiled sadly. "I was thinking something… more severe than that," she said. "And much more secure."

**I chapter**

Daimyo Seihen bit his lower lip in irritation while looking down to his village. It was still, after all the building and strengthening they had done, a pitiful sight. Tiny village of meagre four thousand with barely any defence mechanisms. It had no walls, no barriers, no moats. And the defence forces were just as none existent. They had only mere hundred of trained shinobi - and Seihen knew all too well that they wouldn't never survive a fight against any of the greater nations.

_'And how could they, really?'_ he thought with irritation. His land wasn't a great, powerful warring nation like the rest. Kouin no Kuni, The Land of Time, had been neutral nation for a long, long time. There had been no need for them to ever be a warring nation with forces of their own as they had, formerly, existed far from the other nations. There had been several hundreds of miles between their land and their closest neighbour, Tsuchi no Kuni, Land of Earth, so they had never felt threatened. Also, the terrain around their land made it difficult to people come to them, not to mention about attacking them - mountains and gorges protected them like silent sentinels at all sides…

But as Tsuchi no Kuni had grown stronger and more powerful, as it's shinobi had mastered new arts and learned new methods of using the ground beneath their feet as their weapon, it had begun to move. Each year it had pushed further and further into the west, closer and closer to the formerly secure Kouin no Kuni…

Of course, at the time no one in Kouin no Kuni had felt any worry. They weren't anything a warring nation would wish to conquer. They had no riches in form of precious metals or stones. They were, if something, poor as far as worldly possessions came. Hell, their position on top of the earth's crust was useless too, as they were so far from all the other nations that it took months for merchants to make trips between their country and the others.

But the Daimyo knew that they had something no other country had. Their land was aptly named, as for decades _before_ the great nations, they had already served as the keepers of time. Kouin no Kuni was, above all, land of historians, archaeologists and time keepers. Their libraries were vast with knowledge of things that had passed, things that all other nations had long since forgotten. Their records dated even as far as back as to the very beginning of shinobi arts

And though formerly their records had served no use for anyone, they now did. Kouin no Kuni had kept close record of the development of all of the shinobi nations. Their people ventured out much more often than people ventured in, and in their travels in the other countries, they kept book. And those books were joined into the achieves which now held more books than one could count in a lifetime…

Kouin no Kuni knew the history of the other nations very well. They had records of all the clans that had been before the nations had been established. They knew the powerful histories of important shinobi clans, the ones which were now hailed - or cursed - as clans with Bloodline Limits. They even had not only records but _letters_ from the Sage of Six Paths - they even knew why the man had created the moon.

In their early days Shinobi hadn't given a second thought to their own history. They had been more interested about their future, their present - their power among other nations. Things were different now, with clans with special blood reigning superior among others… and with whispers of war in the air. Now the nations were a little older, little more jaded with two great wars behind them and one more looming ahead. Now they knew the value of history and record. Now they wanted to know, in hopes of finding their enemies' weaknesses in the pages of their history

The Daimyo twisted the stone baluster beneath his hands. The village beneath him, Yuraigakure no sato, Village Hidden in History, was his attempt to save the purpose of his land. The Shinobi of Iwagakure were coming and they were coming for the records. And he knew that they would tear through his land in order to get them. In all honesty he wasn't against sharing the history - that was the _point_ of history after all, to be studied and learned from! But shinobi weren't scholars. They wouldn't ask. They would steal.

So Yuraigakure had been constructed in hurry and all the people of Kouin no Kuni who knew even little bit of shinobi arts had been gathered to defend it. In the village lay the copies of all their archives. Thankfully the archive had been easy enough to gather as at all times there was at least three replicas of every single record that existed in Kouin no Kuni. It had been simple task to simply gather them into one place, place which was hopefully hidden from plain sight…

But would it be enough? What Daimyo Seihen feared the most was that shinobi of Iwagakure no Sato, the Village Hidden Among the Rocks wouldn't settle onto just stealing and reading the records. They might take it further and attempt to destroy the records as well. It was such barbaric shinobi thing to do, destroy all information so that no one else can use it against them. He really couldn't put it past them.

The man frowned. No, it was quite possible that they would indeed seek to do it. Kouin no Kuni did have records of the Iwagakure as well, after all. And even if their objective wasn't to destroy those records, it would be once they would find them. It was no secret in the Kouin no Kuni that copies of the records had been hidden away - probably every citizen knew it. And once the ninja would find out about it…

_'They can destroy the records in the towns. But these copies in this village… they must be saved. Somehow they must be…'_ Seihen growled his knuckles white as he gripped onto the baluster. Something had to be done. But what? He had already drained his treasury dry to create Yuraigakure and he wouldn't have hired ninja to protect the records even if he had had the money. It was much too risky. But still… he had to do something.

_'Well… there is one thing…'_ he thought after a moment, his frown now gaining a worried shade. _'Very risky thing, but…'_

He trailed away as a door in the room behind him opened and someone rushed inside. "Seihen-dono," female voice spoke out in hurry. "Seihen-dono, are you here?"

"I'm here, Inishie," he answered, stepping back from the baluster and then from the balcony into the office. The speaker was a young woman who was wearing pitch black shinobi gear and holding a scroll in her hand. "What is it?" The Daimyo asked, knowing that the leader of his meagre ninja forces could only have bad news.

"The scouts from Iwagakure have reached Jikangire," the woman answered, handing the scroll to him. "It's likely that the main force will reach the town in week's time or less."

"Damn it," the Daimyo murmured, taking the scroll and opening it. It was from chief of the eastern most town of Kouin no Kuni, detailing the arrival of the scouts and their identifying features. Iwa-nin, three of them. _'There is probably more, ninja's never reveal how many of them there are upon first look. The rest are probably avoiding detection.'_

"If they're already at Jikangire and it will only take week for the ret of them to arrive…" the man frowned. It was only matter of time before they found out about Yuraigakure. It might take them longer to actually find it as the location was kept secret for now, but if ninjas were good at something, it was finding things. "Damn it."

"What will we do, my lord?" the kunoichi asked with a frown only partially visible thanks to her mask.

"I don't know," the Daimyo answered, glancing up to her. "But I am considering something very risky."

"Risky, sir?"

"Yes, very risky," he rolled the scroll shut before placing it down to his desk. "You won't know this - none in the Land of Time do as it has been tightly guarded secret of the Daimyos from the time this land begun - but we have always had a certain… secret power at our grasps. One we never indented to use, though, but one which might just help us in this plight."

"Power, Seihen-dono?" Inishie asked. "If the power might protect us from the shinobi of Iwagakure, then…"

"It is not that easy," the man sighed, thinking about their so called secret power. None of his fathers had ever intended to unleash their secret power no matter what - and that decision had been easy for them as in their time Kouin no Kuni had remained secure. It wasn't secure anymore and now Seihen was faced with the terrible decision.

"The power could, most likely, save us. But whether it will is another matter entirely. And once the power has been released it is possible that we can never even attempt to control it. And once it has been freed… well. There is no knowing what it will do, or what it's effect upon this world might be," the Daimyo murmured.

"Sir, what exactly is this… power, then?" Inishie asked carefully.

Seihen smiled grimly. "It is a man," he answered. "From the world before our world. Currently he is sleeping within a crystal casket, and has been for several decades, several centuries even. He is kept asleep by ancient spell, and the scripture in the casket tells that the man inside is capable of great power… but that a great evil lies in his heart, which is why he was forced to sleep."

The Daimyo chuckled and looked away. "We have never had any reason not to believe those words as, even after all these years, the man remains asleep, remains living and remains as young as the day the casket was uncovered. The spell on him is powerful and so must be he. Why else would such spell be there to hold him?"

"So, my lord… this man could help us… or not?" the kunoichi asked.

"The scripture in the casket tells that he was hero once, saviour of the world, before the darkness nestled into his heart," Seihen said. "He was locked away before he could do anything evil, but… there is the possibility. Right now it's impossible to tell which he is. Impossible to tell if he would help us or destroy us."

"Then why are you thinking of using him?" Inishie asked. "Surely our chances are better with the Iwa-nin."

"I don't know if they are, really. And evil people can often be swayed by bribes, gifts… threats," the Daimyo murmured. "If we can offer the man something, or threaten him somehow, he might help us."

There was moment of silence before the woman spoke again. "And what… could we bribe or threaten him with?"

"Freedom or continued imprisonment, maybe?" Seihen shrugged his shoulders but he didn't feel as confident as he made himself appear. It was impossible to tell if freedom interested the man - or if he could be imprisoned again after they would free him. But they had nothing else.

"Perhaps… it would be safest to leave him as last resort, my lord?" Inishie asked. "If Yuraigakure is discovered, then…"

The Daimyo glanced at her and smiled sadly. "What if by then it is already too late?" he asked and was answered by silence. "I understand what you mean though. I don't want to risk the records with this gamble either…" he was quiet for a moment before nodding. "Very well. We will wait and if it seems like we have no choice… then we will wake him. Our hero with an evil heart."

x

It was barely two weeks after Inishie had had the discussion with her Daimyo about their so called trump card, when the card had to be pulled and laid to the table. While following her lord down from the upper levels of the Yuraigakure shinobi head quarters deep into the underground level, the kunoichi couldn't help but wonder if it was the wisest course of action.

She knew the situation was serious. The forces of the Iwagakure were small considering that they came from a great land as the Tsuchi no Kuni, just three hundred shinobi or so, but as only thing Kouin no Kuni had to throw against them was barely hundred shinobi, most untrained, it was more than serious enough. Especially since most of Kouin no Kuni small amount of shinobi were stationed at the Yuraigakure, leaving the towns and villages open for attact.

At the beginning it hadn't seemed bad. Though the libraries of Jikangire had been burned down and twenty or so civilians had been killed - forty more injured - it could've been worse. The Iwa-nin could've burned the entire town, they could've killed every single civilian. They could've robbed the houses and stores and left nothing but ruined wretch of a town behind them… but they hadn't. So as bad as it had been, it hadn't been bad enough.

But after they had been finished at Jikangire, they had split their forces. Despite the attempts of negotiations and assurances that Kouin would give them what ever they wanted the enemy had continued on undisturbed. There was only three towns and about ten villages in entire Kouin no Kuni, so it hadn't taken long before there were shinobi of Iwa in every one of them. And in no time at all, more libraries and archives had been burned to the ground.

Inishie mourned the archives just like any other citizen of Kouin no Kuni. She had been born into a book keeping family like most of her countrymen. She had made art out of writing a diary and keeping records - she had even mastered drawing and painting skills to make her own personal records as good as possible. Her greatest pride was her five year quest out of country during which she had mostly kept record of shinobi and all ninja arts she encountered - which had eventually led her into being the foremost expert of shinobi arts of her country.

So records were close to her heart just like they were with most of her countrymen. And each time achieve burned it felt like someone was tearing the very base of her life. Especially since they had been forced to leave the oldest, most precious records into those, now burned achieves. However it had been acceptable. Copies of every book, scroll and script burned was still in Yuraigakure, so it was alright…

Until the Iwagakure's shinobi had started looking for the hidden village. And they did it with passion, going as far as torturing civilians to try and make them reveal it's location. The enemy was now certain that there were some super secret records in Yuraigakure, something much more valuable than they had encountered in the achieves they had burned… and so they wanted the village found very much.

_'Also, they can't risk to leave behind any record that could prove useful to their enemies,'_ she thought bitterly. _'They are so barbaric, the shinobi of the great countries. They can justify everything to themselves.'_

They would find Yuraigakure. It was only matter of time, Inishie knew it better than anyone. And that was why it was perhaps understandable that Daimyo Seihen was now intending to use their trump card in hopes of averting the upcoming disaster. If the Iwa shinobi found the village, it would be end to their way of life. If the records would be destroyed, the last remaining copies that existed… the very life work of thousands of people would be completely, utterly ruined.

That couldn't be allowed to happen, naturally, but the kunoichi couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. They knew nothing of this man who could possibly save them. And the fact that the man had been put to sleep in the first place spoke against him. He could just as well destroy what they were hoping to save.

But Seihen-dono had made his decision. Inishie didn't like it much, but all she could do was hope that her lord as right, that this was the right course of action. She knew well enough that it was really the last thing they could do right now.

"Here we are," the man spoke ahead her as they reached the end of the long stairs. They stood upon a heavy metal door, which the Daimyo opened with a key. The door gave way into a long corridor with doors left and right.

"Seihen-dono… what is this place?" Inishie asked curiously.

"I had it build when we were constructing the Yuraigakure," the man answered. "It's where our rarest and most precious records are. Original letters from the Sage of Six Paths are here, for example. And of course, he is here too," he motioned her to follow and together they walked to the end of the hall.

Their trump card was hidden behind another metal door, this one requiring two keys to open it. The room behind the door was small and almost completely empty except for the most amazing thing Inishie had ever seen. A casket made of crystal as clear as glass, lit by what looked like glowing seals of complete foreign - possibly also completely forgotten - language. The seals were lazily drifting across the casket like snakes of glowing words. Only place where the writing was still was right on top of the casket where several lines of shimmering blue had been carved into the crystal.

"During the generations my family has been in possession of this casket, we have not been able decipher more than this, the warning about the man and directions about how to wake him," the Daimyo said, running his hand over the still writing while the moving one continued to slither over the crystal. "We have been trying to decipher the moving seals, but it has been impossible. It's almost as if they change every time we try. It's possibly a way to stop anyone from copying the spell."

He had a point. No symbol in the moving strings of writing was alike and they really seemed to change. Inishie stared at the ever moving and changing symbols for a moment before shaking her head to clear it. They seemed almost hypnotic. "How are we going to free him?" she asked, her eyes now drifting inside the crystal. It was clear but distorting enough that she couldn't tell much about the man inside. Only that he wore black and had black hair.

"By opening the coffin," Seihen answered, running his hands over the carved writing again. "There is a trick to it, though."

As the woman watched, the Daimyo started pressing the letters carved into the crystal in careful, calculated way. It was probably a code of some kind, one explained in the ancient text itself. Inishie had no way of understanding it, so she merely waiting until after few minutes, Seihen was finished. After he pressed one final symbol, the crystal coffin let out a strange click - and the moving letters suddenly vanished.

"That should be it," the Daimyo murmured, rubbing his hands briefly together before starting to pry the coffin open. As he did, Inishie prayed any god willing to listen that they hadn't just done a terrible mistake.

The coffin opened slowly. Seeing that the lid was heavier than it looked, Inishie stepped closer to help her lord from the other side of the casket. Her strength was much greater than his and together they managed to get the lid open and after placing it onto the floor beside the coffin, they turned to look at the man inside.

_'He's younger than I expected,'_ was Inishie's first thought. The man didn't look much older than her - actually, he could've been a bit younger than her. His face was pale and expressionless, his eyes closed behind black rimmed eye glasses. The clothes he wore were obviously foreign, and completely black. His hands were crossed over his stomach and were holding something between them. Knobby piece of light shaded wood.

There was a long moment of silence until Inishie finally turned to her Daimyo. "How long do you think it will take for him to wake up, my lord?" She asked carefully.

"He should've already woken," he answered and then gasped, making the woman turn her eyes back to the coffin. The man's eyes had snapped open and were now eying the two of them. Before the kunoichi or the Daimyo could do anything, the man sat up, speaking in language Inishie didn't understand. The man was obviously asking something while looking around before turning to look at them with expectation

"Ah, I'm sorry," Seihen tried. "We can't understand you."

The man stopped short, raising his eyebrows before frowning. He said something in different language now, but just as unrecognisable as the first one. As Inishie and the Daimyo shook their heads, the man tried a third language, and then fourth until finally after the ninth language he gave up, looking highly irritated.

"This… might be a problem," Seihen murmured, glancing at Inishie. "We can't explain our situation to him if we do not have a common language. Now can we really ask for his help."

Inishie opened her mouth to answer but before she could, the man still sitting in the crystal coffin snapped his fingers to draw her attention. As she automatically turned her eyes to his, her mind was suddenly filled oddest sensation of rushing and mental vertigo that almost made her collapse. Her consciousness was filled with whispers ad words, discussions she had once had and screams she had heard or cried out. Words and words flew past her mind, making her wish she could cover her ears, shut her eyes, shut her _mind_ just to make it quiet. The man's eyes however kept her where she was, staring at him as he gazed at her almost as if pouring over her mind.

When the man's eyes finally released her, Inishie collapsed to her knees with her head pounding harder than it ever had. "Inishie!" Seihen cried, stepping around the coffin and next to her. "Are you alright?"

Before she could try to answer, the man in the coffin spoke. "There we go," he spoke in their language, perfectly and without any hint of accent. "Sorry about that, the headache will leave you in a moment," he then added without any sympathy as Inishie tried to look up through hazy eyes. His smile was completely without any empathy as well. "Had to do it, though."

"What exactly did you do?" Seihen asked with under tone of anger.

"I went into her mind and copied her language skills. Had to learn to speak your language since you don't seem to know any of the ones I do," the man answered carelessly, like going to someone's mind was something he did daily. "Now, where in Merurinu's name am I? And where is that woman? I want to give her a piece of my mind."

Inishie tried to open her mouth to ask what sort of skill could allow a person to copy someone's language, but sudden sensation of nausea forced her to close her mouth again. As she fought her body to try and keep her lunch inside, the Daimyo spoke again. "What… woman?" he asked. "I guess you don't mean Inishie?"

"No, I mean Herumione. The witch who put me to sleep," the man answered, and from the corner of her eyes Inishie could see him looking down to the coffin. "Though when she did, I'm pretty sure she was meaning to keep me on a bed… hmm, what's this…?"

The man had found a piece of what looked like parchment from beside him, and was now unfolding it. As Inishie regained the control of her stomach and managed to get back to her feet, the man read through the parchment with a frown. "That witch," he finally muttered turning his eyes to the piece of wood he was still holding in his hand. Then he looked at the others. "How long have I been asleep?"

"We… we have no way of knowing. Your casket has been in the possession of my family for over eighty years now, though," Seihen answered.

"Well, that doesn't tell me anything, now does it?" the man answered with unkind smile. "What's the date?"

"According to which calendar?"

"Guregorianu would be nice, but I can handle with Xia calendar too," the man tilted his head mockingly. "So?"

"Ah…" Inishie glanced at her Daimyo. She had never heard of either calendar.

"I think I might know Xia calendar," Seihen murmured, frowning as he tried to remember. "It's the calendar type that starts at the first day of spring, right? It's very old. I think the last time I bothered to try and calculate the year with it, the year was… five thousand, four hundred and… sixty one, I think. But it was several years ago."

The man sitting in the coffin stared at him for a moment before narrowing his eyes slightly. Inishie could see Seihen's eyes widen slightly and glaze over, before the green eyed man cursed under his breath. "You're not lying… You're really not lying," the man muttered while the Daimyo blinked confusedly. "What the hell, I've been sleeping over seven hundred years?"

"My apologies," Seihen offered, though he looked a bit bewildered. Inishie couldn't blame the Daimyo much. The idea that someone had survived for so long was incredible.

The man was quiet for a moment before shaking his head and schooling the shock out of his face. "None necessary, you're not the one who put me to sleep in the first place," the man muttered, glancing over the piece of parchment before pushing it into his pocket. "So, why did you wake me up anyway? You got to have some reason. And where am I, exactly?"

"You are currently in my country, Land of Time, in recently established Village Hidden in History," Seihen answered. "I am the Daimyo, the feudal lord of this land. And I woke you to…" he licked his lips nervously. "An enemy has invaded these lands and they are approaching this village in order to destroy our historical records, which are the pride and joy of this country. I woke you in hopes that you could help us protect ourselves and our archives."

The man stared at him flatly for a moment. "You woke me up to protect your history books?" he then asked.

"They aren't just books!" Inishie finally managed to speak up. "They are the lifeblood of this land! We have been keeping record of time's passage ever since this country was established, it is our pride and duty to do so! Those books are the life work of several generations and if they are destroyed -"

"Calm down lady," the man scoffed at her while swinging his legs out of the coffin and getting up. "No need to give me righteous speeches. I like books just as much as any guy." He stretched. "Damn I'm all stiff… Anyway, you woke me up and I guess I would've kept on sleeping till kingdom come if you hadn't, so I might as well do you this favour for you."

"I… thank you," Seihen sighed with relief while Inishie gritted her teeth. "What can you do, um… Might I inquire your name?"

The black haired man paused for a moment before thinking about it. "Toukou Hari will do. I already know yours, so need to bother with introductions," he then said. "Now, what do you have in mind? How big is your village? If it isn't too big, I could make it Unplottable… maybe throw in notice-me-not ward or concealment barrier… maybe illusion…" he glanced at the piece of wood in his hand. "With this it shouldn't be too hard…"

Inishie really wanted to ask what the man meant by the things he was saying, but she held her tongue as the Daimyo spoke. "Currently the village is fairly small…" he said and motioned towards the door. "If you would follow us, I can show you."

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Toukou nodded while pocketing the piece of wood. "Lead the way."

x

_'Damn it, Hermione,'_ Harry thought while following the lord up the long flight of stairs and trying to ignore the woman who was walking behind him and eying him like a hawk. _'The one time you have to muck things up, you muck them up for me. If you weren't already dead, I think I'd kill you for this..'_

Seven hundred years in a freaking crystal box because she had wanted to "cure" him of his evil. Seven hundred years because her nifty little plan had worked about as well as ice skating worked in hell. _'I went into sleep because she promised me that she wouldn't keep me like that for too long. "Ten years," she said, "fifteen at most," she said. Hah.'_

He fisted his hand before pulling out the letter she had left into the casket. It was brutally short and, in his opinion, not even nearly apologetic enough. Hermione wrote that she had worked tirelessly not for ten years, but over _forty_ before her work had been interrupted by the World War III. After that she had been forced to go into hiding along with most of magical world while muggles blew each other up. Harry, to his endless delight, had been put away in Department of Mysteries of all places.

_'Who know what happened after that. Obviously she didn't fetch me and no one continued her work,'_ Harry thought while scowling at the letter. In it was explained that instructions to how to open the casket had been written to it just in case. _'Just in case. Hah. Just in case people forget me entirely and someone I have never heard of might want to wake me up seven hundred years later. Just freaking brilliant.'_

He looked up. It was obvious that the world had changed more than a bit in his… absence. Having woken up in some underground bunker by these people was proof enough of that, but the greater proof was in the minds of these people. For the life of him he couldn't tell if Inishie and Seihen were muggles or wizards. Their minds were blatantly open and easy to read, just like the minds of muggles, but in the same time he could sense some… energy in them. It wasn't magic, but it was still more than any muggle had.

_'Squibs maybe?'_ he wondered. He would've burrowed into their minds with Legilimency to find out, but it was more than they could handle without passing out judging by the woman's reaction to what Harry had done. _'Useful skill to have, but pretty crude,'_ he mused. Using Legilimency to copy a skill from someone's mind was relatively simple, once one learned the trick. The greatest master of this 'skill theft' was no doubt Bartemius Crouch Senior who had mastered most of his famed inventory of two hundred languages by use of Legilimency.

With Legilimency Harry could've easily dragged all the answers to his questions out of the two people who had woken, but it wasn't perhaps the best thing to do right now. Especially since Seihen was an important lord - Harry really didn't need the trouble he would probably get, knocking out and conflicting possible brain damage on a Daimyo right now.

_'Better wait and see for now. I'm not in a hurry and I can just have them explain this situation the old fashioned way,' _he mused. _'If it gets to that, I can Legilimens them later. And thanks the Hermione's last bit of genius, I have the Elder Wand so I should be able to handle most things they could throw at me for doing it…'_

It was also somewhat relieving that these people didn't seem to know what a wand was. If they did, they would've probably taken it from him. _'Though since they want me to protect their libraries…'_ Which again made no sense. What was this, country inhabited solely by the descendants of Ravenclaws? _'Though I probably should take look at these libraries. I want to know what has happened in the past seven hundred years…'_

"So, this enemy of yours. Why exactly do they want to destroy your records anyway?" he asked thoughtfully. There had some sort of good reason for it except for hate of history.

"Our archives are vast," the Daimyo answered thoughtfully. "For decades we have recorded anything we encounter. This includes the history and development of the other countries, and the history of the clans that were before the countries were established. We also have as vast records of various shinobi arts and traditions as well as detailed records of the other Hidden Villages." He smiled grimly. "Thus we have much delicate information, maps no one else has for one, as well as records of clan abilities that most would wish to keep secret."

"Shinobi?" Harry asked curiously. There was no exact translation for that, not that he could find one in his new repertoire of the local language.

"Shinobi are… warriors, I suppose is the simplest way to define them, but they are more than that," Seihen answered thoughtfully. "They are also bodyguards, thieves, assassins, spies… what ever they need to be. Mostly they hail from Hidden Villages, and almost every nation has a hidden village of shinobi, of ninja. They are lead by their Kage but to some extent the Daimyos of the lands they live in also has a say to their doing. Shinobi villages are also, in certain way, the military power of their lands though often Daimyos have their own military forces that are set apart from shinobi."

Harry raised his eyebrows. Bodyguards, thieves, assassins, spies, soldiers, warriors? "Sounds like varying bunch," he muttered. "And you know something about these shinobi and their hidden villages that they don't want you to know?" It actually made sense if they worked as much in the shadow as thieves, assassins and spies had to.

The woman behind him was the one who spoke next. "Shinobi are set apart from civilians by their ability to use chakra," she said. "With chakra they can produce feats that seem near miracles from a civilian's point of view. Attacks of fire, water, earth, lightning and wind, illusions so good that you can feel, smell and taste them, healing arts that can heal wounds otherwise mortal. They also often have super human strength and endurance."

She paused for a moment before coughing. "Shinobi usually hail from clans and often clans have their own specific talents which they do not share with other clans. In some cases they even have a thing called Kekkei Genkai, a Bloodline Limit. These are genetic abilities passed down from parents to children, things only someone of a specific bloodline can do," she spoke. "Clan abilities and Bloodline Limits are great weapons as usually no outsider knows much about them… and that is how they wish to keep them."

Now Harry was really curious. _'Chakra? Could be a new name for magic… This bears looking into, as do the things these shinobi are able to do with this chakra,'_ he mused and then spoke. "And I guess you know a thing or two about them that they don't want you to know?"

The Daimyo scoffed. "It's more that they don't want their _enemies_ to know about them. Before the shinobi of Village Hidden Amongst Rocks came, our archives have been open for anyone who has wished to view them. Very few had had that interest as before our neighbours were far, but when Land of Earth extended it's borders towards us…" he shook his head, seemingly irritated. "Well, they began to see our knowledge as possible threat. The upcoming war also has a thing or two to do with it."

"So there is a war coming too?" This was just getting better and better.

"The Land of Fire has been gaining power in the last decade or two," the Daimyo said. "The shinobi of their hidden village, the Village Hidden in Leafs, are known for endurance and for never forsaking their missions. They also have several knowledgeable clans and two of the greatest Kekkei Genkai known. And it seems that there have been rumours of a power shift - there is soon going to be a new Kage in their village - which makes people nervous."

"So, this war is coming because this village hidden in leafs is too strong?" the wizard asked thoughtfully.

"Land of Fire is also located at very crucial position," Inishie added her opinion. "And several of the lesser countries share borders with it. Because of this, Hidden Leaf gets more customers and missions than the other great nations."

"Customers? Missions?" Harry asked as they finally reached the end of the stairs. The daimyo pushed a wooden door open and led Harry and Inishie into a rather dark hall, before starting to lead them through it.

"That is how Hidden Villages often fund themselves, by offering their services for the right cost," Seihen explained.

"I see. So, other villages don't like that Hidden Leaf is so powerful and wealthy?" Harry summarised. "And because of that they wish to go to war with it?"

"And when that happens they want to have all the advantages they can get," the Daimyo nodded, stopping at a door at the end of the hall and pushing it open. It opened into a what looked like sun-lit office. "And no matter at whose side Iwagakure will fight, they do not want anyone to have access to any vital information about their shinobi."

The wizard nodded. _'Very interesting. And quite bit different from the one war I have fought,'_ he mused. _'I need to get more info about this. And about these shinobi. They sound quite interesting…'_

He glanced around in the office. It didn't look too foreign to his eyes, thank Merlin, though by the looks of few poster-like scrolls on the walls, these people had writing system foreign to him. _'I need to copy someone's understanding of their written language, but that's not important right now,'_ he mused while stepping closer to a window near by and looking out. "We are in a… tower?" he asked while looking down to the village underneath them.

"Shinobi headquarters of our village, yes. Though currently I am the one leading them," Seihen answered. "Our forces are small in comparison to the other lands, however. We only have about hundred shinobi and most of them are poorly trained."

"I see," Harry mused while eying the village thoughtfully. It wasn't really all that big, about the size of Hogsmeade actually. "Has your enemy found this place yet?"

"Not as far as we can tell. Yuraigakure is a very new village and we have done our best to keep it's location secret," the Daimyo explained. "But we know that they are looking for it and will most likely find it."

"Hmm… I can help you there pretty easily, but I want something in return," Harry said, glancing at the man over his shoulder. "I want to take look at your archives. I've missed seven hundred years so I have much to catch up on. Oh, and if you have a world map, I'd like to take a look at it too."

"That is fine," the daimyo nodded. "However the oldest record we have is only two hundred years old. Everything before… we don't know."

"What? Your history only reaches back two hundred years?" Harry asked with disbelief. "How come?"

"Everything before that has been lost," Seihen said apologetically. "We aren't entirely sure but we suspect that there has been some sort of cataclysm in our past that shook the people of this world so badly that we had to start completely over. It is impossible to know, though. All we have is smallest titbits of information most of it useless."

"I… see," the wizard frowned. That complicated things. "Well it can't be helped, I suppose," he muttered, tuning away from the window. "Now, let's talk about the time frame I have to work with and what sort of security you want me to put up." The faster he would get the warding of the village out of the way, the quicker he could tackle the archives.

**II chapter**

It didn't take Inishie long to figure out that she didn't much like Toukou Hari. There was something wrong about the man, something about the way he smiled and in the same time didn't, about the way he spoke with his tones that had different shades, how he stood and moved. The man wasn't a ninja and he wasn't a warrior but he was still dangerous in his own right. It was in his words, in the tilt of the man's head, in the curl of his lips.

Inishie was pretty sure that Toukou Hari could kill them all and he wouldn't care, wouldn't feel slightest bit of remorse.

_'But he won't now, and maybe he won't later,'_ she thought, clinging to that as her lifeline. Seven hundred years asleep had left the man disoriented and confused even though the man didn't show it or didn't seem too bothered by it. The world was new to the man and because of that he couldn't risk to kill anyone just yet. Not before he knew more. _'At least I hope so…'_

The memory of mental vertigo of the man going through her mind and learning her language made the kunoichi shudder as she followed the man. She tried not to think much of it - and something about the casualness Toukou displayed made it easy - but she couldn't really forget it for one single moment. Here was a man with talent greater than any she had read about or encountered. Like mixture of powerful skills, condensed into even more powerful packet.

Unlike the Yamanaka of Hidden Leaf, Toukou didn't need a to prepare to invade someone's mind. There was no delay, no gathering of chakra as far as she could tell, no need for stillness. The man had only need an eye contact and her mind had been open book to him.

Unlike the Uchiha of Hidden Leaf, Toukou didn't need to even see a skill or a talent to copy it. His eyes were normal green irises with no hint of the power they seemed to posses. Nothing gave it away outwardly as the man used his eyes probably better than any Uchiha could dream of. Could Uchiha copy languages? Possibly from writing. Not from people's minds. Not within seconds.

Inishie wanted to desperately ask what was the skill the man had used, how did it work - how to defend against it - but she knew the man wouldn't answer. So instead she did what her Daimyo had ordered and just trailed after the man as Toukou circled around Yuraigakure.

"Toukou-san," she eventually spoke when the silence had gotten too long and she needed distraction from her own thoughts. "What exactly are you going to do?"

"First I'm going to make your little village Unplottable," the man said while looking around and then stepping near a large boulder left to them. "It'll make it impossible for people to locate this place on a map or find it unless they know exactly where it is - unless they have been there. I'm charting the perimeter now, marking how far outside the village it's going to extend, the unplottable area."

"That sort of thing is possible?"

"If you know how to do it," Toukou answered, taking out his wooden stick and waving it at the boulder almost lazily. Inishie could swear that she saw white sparks come out of the stick. "Lot of places were secured like this back before I went to sleep. It was pretty common method for people like me to hide themselves."

"People like you?"

"Wizards, witches… magicians," the man said, glancing at her. "Who knows what has happened to them since. Might be that they're still hiding. Might be that they've died out. Who knows."

Despite her dislike towards the man, Inishie couldn't help but feel curious. Such people had existed seven hundred years ago? "What makes you think that they might be died out?"

"The world is different than it was when I went to sleep," the man shrugged carelessly and moved on from the boulder. "The shape of the world is different. Entire regions of earth I knew seem to be gone and others have risen to their place. It's like someone rearranged the continents completely, sunk islands and rouse new ones to their place. If I didn't know better, I'd say I'm in a different world entirely."

The man sighed almost morosely. "Something big happened in the past and it changed the whole face of the world. I can rule out the possibility it wiped out my kind…" he snorted. "Well, it doesn't matter right now. Let's move on."

He shook his head and walked on while Inishie followed, contemplating the words. She couldn't imagine what it was like for him, and couldn't sympathise - not that she wanted to. But she was curious. Here was a walking talking proof that the world had been different once, that it had gone through some highly altering cataclysm. There had always been theories, but never proof.

"What was world like before you went to sleep?" the kunoichi asked carefully.

"Different, fuller. There was enough people to fill every corner of the world. People bred like cockroaches. There were barely no unclaimed regions at all like these seems to be now - every single bit of liveable land was part of this or that nation. And nations were bigger than they seem to be now, and much more powerful in some cases," the man mused. "There was more technology. Some of it good, some of it bad. I figure it was the bad sort of technology that changed the world. Either that or some very powerful magicians."

"How could technology do something like that?"

"Back when I was awake the last time, people had bombs that could wipe out entire cities. Cities hundreds and hundreds of times bigger than your little village, gone in a flash of light," the man shrugged. "And it was long time since. I figure they evolved into even deadlier form. And maybe then they were used."

They stopped at another boulder and Toukou waved his stick at it. "Kind of pity though," the man muttered almost wistfully to himself. "There was a world's end and I missed it. Go figure."

Inishie shuddered and hastened to change the subject. "Is this… unblottability the only thing you're going to do?"

"Hm? Ah, no. I'll be also throwing a notice-me-not ward along with suggestion ward," the man answered. "Together they will make people, who don't know that your village is there, not notice it. Instead they will see whatever they choose to see. More rocks and mountains probably," he motioned around them to the boulders and mountains that were all around the village. "I'd put up some offensive warding and maybe a detection ward too, but since you don't have a magician here, the first would probably turn in on you and the latter would be useless, so no can do."

"Offensive warding?"

"Yeah. I had some in my house way back when. The simpler ones knocked people unconscious, the more complex ones caused some injuries to uninvited guests," the man smiled rather ferally as he said this. "Can't do that here, though. Wards like that needs someone to control them."

"Can _you_ control them?" Inishie asked confusedly.

The man snorted mockingly. "You think I'm going to stay in this little village of yours?" he asked and laughed. "Once I've gotten your warding up and learned all I need from your records, I'm leaving. It's a new world out there and I want to see it."

The kunoichi grimaced, thankful that the mask hid at least most of her embarrassed blush. The rest of the walk continued in silence.

x

"You're done? That was… fast," Seihen couldn't help but mutter when Toukou and Inishie had returned and the former had explained that he was finished. "It really took so little time?"

"When you know how to do it right, warding doesn't really take that long. Besides, this was small place to ward and the warding was simple enough to do," Toukou said while casually flopping down to sit on a near by couch. "Of course these aren't exactly protective wards. They just make you a little harder to find."

"So, our archives still aren't safe," the Daimyo frowned.

"Well, not as such. But if you want I can lay down some more defensive forms of warding on them," the magician shrugged. "Those would only cover the libraries and whatever else you want to protect, though. As they are smaller than the village, they'll be easier to ward. It'll take a smidge longer though and it's getting late - and I'm hungry too. I want some food and sleep before I'll start with those."

"Then of course we shall eat, and afterwards I will arrange sleeping quarters for you," Seihen said, standing up from behind his desk. He promised himself to make sure to ask about the man's warding process later from Inishie - and see if there was a way to check if the wards worked as the man told they did.

"I have been wondering… how does your magic work, Toukou-san?" Seihen asked once they had sat down to eat in another room after few of his servants had delivered the food. "Does it work like chakra, or…?"

"Well, how does chakra work?" the dark haired man asked in return, shrugging. "Chakra is completely new concept for me, so I can't really draw any comparisons."

Inishie, who stood by the door and didn't join them in the table, was the one who answered. "Put in simplest way, chakra is a mixture of spiritual and physical energy," she answered. "The energy that we have in every cell in our bodies, mixed with the energy of experience and exercise. Once mixed, it can be controlled through the chakra circulatory system, and released through any of the three hundred and sixty one chakra points that locate in various parts of the body."

Toukou eyed the woman interestingly. "And it's controlled by, what, will alone?" he asked.

"No, chakra usually is controlled through hand seals," the woman answered, making a simple hand seal with her hand. "Hands have chakra points and chakra veins which are easiest to control, and pushing chakra through them when they are in certain shape results a certain effect. In total there are twelve commonly used seals. This, for example, is the ram seal which makes the user more aware of their chakra circulatory system and is useful for more precise chakra control thorough the body."

"That is very interesting…" Toukou murmured, pushing his glasses higher up in his nose while contemplating it for a moment. Then he turned to look at Seihen. "Magic, I imagine, is somewhat similar to your spiritual energy then as I don't think we had any use for physical strength. I don't use any circulatory system to control it - and if I have one, I'm unaware of it. Instead I stimulate it and bring it forward by using outlet that also serves as way of directing and controlling my magic. Magic itself is wild force. Tools, certain ways of moving the tools and certain words used in junction, is what made it's use possible."

Seihen nodded. "So the wooden stick you use…"

"It's a magic wand," Toukou smiled somewhat self mockingly. "Rather silly, but it's what made my kind powerful back when I was awake the last time. A wand such as mine was designed to draw magic from inside us and enable it's precise use. Without one spell casting tends to be near impossible."

"Like without hands, controlling chakra will be nearly impossible," Inishie murmured. "Could it be that magic and chakra are related?"

"Who knows. For all I know you people might be more evolved descendants of my kind. Or maybe you devolved. It's been long time, so it's impossible to tell now without some proof," Toukou shrugged his shoulders. "Where did you find my coffin, by the way?" he then asked. "Because I imagine if my kind was still around, the casket would've been with them."

"Ah. I can't be entirely sure, as it was sold to my family long time ago and the records of it's origin were vague to say at least. But I think it was excavated somewhere further to the west," Seihen answered. "There was time when excavations were fairly popular and lot of relics such as your coffin were found back then. These days they are less popular."

"Hmm… I see," the dark haired man murmured. "Ah well, it doesn't really matter right now," he then said and glanced at Inishie. "Can you tell me more about chakra and the way shinobi can use it? I would very much like to hear more about it."

x

_'I wonder if they realise that once the Iwa-nin understand they can't find this place, they will just get pissed off because of it?'_ Harry wondered the next day while finishing his spell work on the last library. Altogether there was four of them in the Yuraigakure, all of them enormous but still relatively small as in comparison to the full village. _'People have the tendency of getting irritable when things don't go their way…'_

All in all, the protections he had put up were pretty poor. Unplottability, illusions and notice-me-not charms wouldn't help the place if someone inside betrayed it to someone outside. The libraries were a bit better protected now that Harry had layered them with sturdier security charms and protection charms, but even that was flimsy at best. All one would have to do was to move the records outside the library and they would be vulnerable to harm again.

_'Can't put up anything better though, not without anyone to watch over the wards. Can't even put any decent barrier wards either because only I'd be able to open them and lock them…'_ he mused. He didn't particularly care though. The Iwa-nin could burn the Yuraigakure down if they wanted to, as long as they did it _after_ he had learned all he wanted to from the archives.

_'Which reminds me, I need to learn how to read their writing,'_ Harry mused and turned to his silent shadow. Inishie was leaning to the library door frame, staring at him just like she had done all day. "I'm done," Harry said, leering at her. "No need to look at me like I'm about to set the place on fire."

The woman frowned and glanced around. "The library is secured now?"

"As much as it can be," Harry lied. "I made the shelves indestructible so anything in them can't be harmed. Also I added some automated repairing charms so that if harm can be done to the archives, it will repair itself soon after. And of course I threw a notice-me-not ward and some illusions so they will be hard to find unless you know where they are, just like the village."

The woman nodded. "That sounds good," she said and turned to Harry. "We should report to Seihen-dono and see if he has further orders."

"I don't think so," Harry grinned meanly at her. "I did as asked, your little archives are as secure as I can make them. Now it's time for you people to deliver your end of the bargain."

Inishie froze and then turned to glare at him. "And what is it that you want?"

"First, someone who can understand this writing," the wizard motioned towards a wall scroll near by. "So that I can copy their talent and learn how to understand it myself. And then I want to go through the archives to see if I can find anything interesting in them. That was the deal with Seihen, wasn't it?"

The woman was quiet for a moment before making a motion with her hand. A man seemed to appear out of nowhere beside her, wearing the same black outfit with similar partial fabric mask to the one she wore. The two of them exchanged some words in low tones before the man vanished again. "I sent a word of your demand to Seihen-dono," Inishie answered Harry's curious look. "He will decide what to do."

"Will he now?" Harry asked irritably and then his lips curled into a smile. "I could steal the language right out of your mind and you couldn't do anything about it, you know."

"Not unless you can get an eye contact," Inishie answered and brought her hand into a seal. Before Harry could do anything, she faded out of sight as if she had pulled an Invisibility Cloak on herself. "You can't get into the mind of someone you can't see."

Harry couldn't help but laugh at that. _'I guess the woman isn't as useless as I thought,'_ he mused. "Very good," he said, turning his eyes to the archives to avoid staring at empty space and looking like an idiot. "That is some sort of illusion then?"

"Low level stealth Genjutsu, any Genin with good chakra control can do it," the woman answered smugly.

Harry chuckled and decided not to tell the woman that he probably could've pinpointed her location with simple _Homenum_ _Revelio_ spell. _'That wouldn't help me see her or use Legilimency on her, though, but that's beside the point,'_ he mused. "What a good little Genin you must be, then. But fine, let us wait for what Seihen has to say," he said out loud. "Out of curiosity, how long have you studied ninja arts?"

"Ever since I was a very young. I started the physical training when I was six and mastered my first Ninjutsu technique in age of eight," the woman's disembodied voice answered from behind him. "Some start earlier than that, others later."

"Is there limit how old you can be to learn the techniques?"

"The younger you start, the easier it is, but it has been proven that there is no actual limit to it. There has been civilians who learned chakra techniques at later age despite the lack of prior training."

_'Good, that's good. It means I can still learn even though I'm twenty three,'_ Harry mused, looking down to his hands. _'Well, at least I should be twenty three. It doesn't seem like I aged at all while I was a sleep. Hermione did something right, at least.'_ If he had aged while sleeping and woken up as old man, he would've found the long lost Stone of Resurrection and dragged Hermione's spirit back to earth just so that he could personally kill her. Regardless whether spirits can be killed or not.

"While we wait, could you tell me about the Great Ninja Nations?" Harry asked, shaking the thought of a dead woman out of his head. Instead he thought to the map Seihen had showed him about the lands. "And how come there are smaller nations between the big ones? If ninja are as warlike as you say they are, why haven't those nations been conquered yet?"

"It's unspoken, unwritten and mostly unconfirmed thought, but we believe it's because the barrier of the lesser nation between the greater ones decreases the chances of large wars between the great nations," Inishie answered. "They keep the power balance, in a manner. And of course when a larger nation makes a move to assimilate a smaller one into it's lands, it of course makes the other nations nervous."

"And could thus be taken as action of war huh?" Harry mumbled.

"Normally the great nations seek to keep peace. They are more or less aware of the fact that should they get into a fight, they could very well grind all the nations to dust," the kunoichi spoke. "The first and second great shinobi wars are still well remembered, as it hasn't really been that long since then, and with as many people as each nation lost in those fights… well, it's not something what people want to be repeated."

"Except now they do? Seihen seems to think there is another great war coming."

"Well, the upcoming war hasn't been exactly confirmed yet, but it has been coming for a while now," Inishie agreed. "Hidden Leaf is prospering whilst several of the other nations are not. The lesser nations are more often turning to Leaf than to other hidden villages for help, making them even more powerful and taking customer from other nations. On top of that, Leaf is powerful. And the idea of new Hokage makes people nervous."

"How come?"

"Change in leadership usually means change in administration as well. The current Hokage is known for supporting peaceful methods, for having good negotiation skills and just generally preferring a peaceful way of management. However the new Hokage might not have his ideals. And if Leaf turns into a nation seeking war, well…"

The wizard nodded thoughtfully. There had to be something else to the thing than worry and jealousy. People didn't start wars because of that alone. "Is it known who s going to be the new Hokage?" he asked.

"It's unverified but the popular belief is that it will be the current Hokage's prize pupil, Orochimaru. And he… well, there are rumours about him, unconfirmed all of them and each one nastier than the next."

"Rumours about what?"

"Human experimentation. He comes from a clan without a Kekkei Genkai but is known for having an slightly unhealthy interest towards bloodline limits. Also it's not exactly a secret that Orochimaru is seeking to become immortal," Inishie's scoff was easy to hear from her voice. "Nothing of this is written in black and white, but people speak."

"And you write down the rumours, huh?" Harry murmured eying the shelves. "For warriors who are suppose to be stealthy, ninjas don't seem to be able to keep their secrets secret."

Inishie didn't get the chance to answer as the man she had sent to Seihen returned to the library door. Inishie seemed to materialise out of nowhere beside the man and again the two exchanged words in low tones. Then Inishie looked up. "Seihen-dono wishes to know why couldn't you learn the written language in the _normal_ way."

Harry gave the woman a flat look. "And waste time when there is a quicker way to do it?" he asked. People lacking the talent themselves never approved the use of Legilimency to learn. Harry could understand that - there was a time when he shared the opinion - but that was before he had realised that it was useless sentimentalism - and that even Dumbledore had abused his Legilimency all the time.

Inishie gave him a dark look. "This talent of yours, how does it work exactly?"

Harry snorted at her. "What do you think? I go into your mind and take what I need. If you're worried about me seeing your memories or secrets, never mind that. I can glance your surface thoughts, but that's it. Ultimately the skill was designed for learning." Little bit of lying never hurt no one. Great bit of lying on other hand was just plain helpful. "My people did it all the time."

Inishie clearly didn't believe him as she scowled. "Very well, you can take the written language from me," she then said, waving aside the look the male shinobi gave her. "I will not have you going into the minds of my subordinates," she said, the words meant for the other shinobi rather than at Harry.

"What self sacrificing ideology. How admirable," Harry murmured, locking his eyes with Inishie's. "Don't worry. This won't be as much of a head rush as the first time. Written language is easier to copy than the spoken language you learned as a child - it's not as deeply rooted…"

He gave no further warning as he allowed himself to be drawn into the woman's mind. Basking for a moment in the easiness of it and how the woman's mind spreaded around him, his to take and his to maim if he so wished, he turned toward the centre of her skills. She had plenty of interesting ones - and Harry was very tempted to take her shinobi skills while he was at it - but he held himself back and concentrated onto the writing instead. Taking too much would knock the woman out, and that wouldn't look too good on the outside.

After finding the string of written words that indicated her skill of reading and writing, Harry latched onto it and following it to it's origins he found the rest of her writing and reading related skills and immediately started to assimilate them into his own mind. After doing it some dozen times in the past, he had mastered the talent of skill theft easily enough to do it comfortably and quickly.

Well, it comfortable and quick for him, at any rate.

After withdrawing from Inishie's mind, Harry turned to look at the books and scrolls in the shelves, ignoring her quiet gasp. Satisfied smile spreaded to the wizard's face as he read the backs of the book as well as if he had known how to all his life. "Perfect," he murmured and added in mockingly grateful tone, "Thank you, Inishie."

"You are a bastard, Toukou," the woman answered in slightly wheezing voice, obviously trying not to fall over.

Harry just laughed in answer and took the nearest book to his hand. He had some reading to do.

x

"I don't like this, Seihen-dono. I don't like the idea that we have to rely on Toukou's so called wards to protect the village and I don't like that Toukou is going through the libraries," Inishie murmured more to herself than to the Daimyo who was staring out of the window with thoughtful look about his face.

"I know. I don't exactly find Toukou-san the most pleasurable company I have kept - or the most trustworthy," Seihen agreed softly. "But the scouts have confirmed the effectiveness of the wards and as long as Toukou-san himself remains within the village, it is in his best interest that the village is not found. We have to trust that he, like any human being, values his own safety."

The kunoichi frowned but said nothing. As far as she saw it Toukou would happily risk his own life if he got something out of it. Right now she couldn't tell what that was but by the time the man would be done with his studies, it certainly was nothing they could offer. "He said that once he would get everything he needs from the archives he would leave," she said softly. "What keeps him from giving us away to our enemy?"

Seihen made a thoughtful look but didn't answer for a long while. "For now he has no reason to do so. Other than sheer vindictiveness but he has no reason for that either. Also, he coffin he slept in is still in our possession," he glanced at the kunoichi over her shoulder. "Even if the spell is broken it might still prove some value. I do not think Toukou-san would wish to go back to sleep…"

"But if the spell is broken, isn't the casket useless?" Inishie asked. "Also, I think Toukou is hiding major part of his abilities from us. Even if the spell worked, there is no way of knowing if we would be even able to put him back into the coffin."

"Yes, there is that…" Seihen sighed. "I guess we can only wait and hope for best. It should take some time for Toukou-san go through our archives, they are massive after all. The scouts of the Iwagakure are still roaming the mountain side and at any day they will find this valley. When they do, Toukou-san should still be here. Then we will see… what will come out of it."

"My lord, Toukou would never fight for us," Inishie said with mirthless chuckle. "We mean nothing to him, this village means nothing to him."

"But the libraries do. He is now aware that he cannot get the information in them from any other source. That gives us a chance," Seihen said and smiled at her over his shoulder. "Even if it's a very small one, we need it."

Inishie sighed. She hated it, but she knew that without Toukou there, they wouldn't have been able to do anything but just wait for the Iwa-nin to come. This did give them a chance, as odd and flickering as it was, and that was more than they could've worked out on their own. "Yes sir," she murmured.

"You have someone watching Toukou-san, I take?" the Daimyo asked.

"Yes, one of my best," Inishie assured. "Though there is not much to watch, as soon as he received the understanding over our writing methods, only thing he has done is to read."

"Hm. That is good for us. Keeps him out of trouble if nothing else," Seihen chuckled. "But I still I want him watched at all times. Even if he seems to be doing nothing."

"Yes sir, we shall not let him out of our sights even for one moment, I promise," the kunoichi answered, slightly relieved that they still had some control over the situation. Even if it felt like they were guarding over some sort of mirage that was hiding something… strange and dangerous underneath it.

x

Harry only spend about hour going through history records of the countries before forsaking the task as useless. They didn't go back far enough to be really all that informative and in all honesty he wasn't interested in the histories of lands or clans and whatever they had in the world these days. All he really needed to know about that the clans had emerged slowly, strengthened over time and eventually gotten into wars which had ended into the forming of countries, some of them now gone, others stronger than ever.

_'It's pretty easy to figure out that even these folk don't know exactly where they come from,'_ he mused. _'They seem to still have plenty of former muggle sciences and such so the humans haven't forgotten _everything_ but they have forgotten most of the knowledge considering where they have come from…'_

Simplest theory to explain that was the one of the cataclysm. Something had happened, it had changed the world so drastically that while trying to adapt humans had forgotten their past. _'Not exactly a big loss, knowing history in that sort of situation isn't exactly an advantage…'_

After deciding that history of nations didn't help him, Harry turned to the history of the shinobi arts. Inishie had explained some about it all, enough to make Harry understand it, but the books gave him a more detailed information. The chakra circulatory system, the development it went through with physical and mental training and the various way one could use chakra… they were more than a little interesting. But what Harry found most interesting was the history of how shinobi arts spreaded.

It seemed that in the beginning, some two hundred years back, before the clans had became strong enough to start fighting amongst themselves, shinobi had been very rare. There had been of course ninja, there had been samurai, but those with capability of using chakra… they had been few and far between. It had changed over the years when the clans had grown and shinobi arts had gained huge popularity - and shinobi had became very desirable for marriages - but in the beginning…

Still there seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of civilian families with no hope of ever being able to use chakra. Chakra potential seemed to also be passed down genetically. Two shinobi parents were more likely to have a child with chakra potential than two civilians - though sometimes, by some quirk of nature, two with no potential could produce a child with great potential for chakra control…

To Harry this all screamed _magic_. Except he could see that chakra was very different from the magic he knew. It was used in different way for completely different tasks. Very few chakra based arts could be used outside battle fields, hospitals or some other shinobi related activity. Of course tools could be used for different jobs but still, most of shinobi arts had been designed for battle fields.

Magic and spells had been mostly designed for day-to-day life. Of course there were battle spells, healing spells and so forth and so forth, but the fact remained. Magic was more _casual_ than chakra.

_'Though that says really nothing. How wizards used magic and how shinobi use chakra really has nothing to do with magic or chakra, but the people,'_ Harry mused. _'Wizards designed their spells to serve them best in their lives. Shinobi designed their jutsu for similar reasons. And unlike wizards, shinobi are not a race of people. They are what they do, not what they were born as…'_

Wizards were born - as people. Shinobi were trained and they did their jobs - as weapons. That made all the difference.

_'Still it doesn't say if magic and chakra are the same thing. Though I am leaning onto the idea that they are not…' _The wizard frowned. Nowhere in the records there was any sign of accidental magic. Young shinobi never displayed any of it because before they could do anything with their chakra, they needed to learn how to control it. Unlike with magic, chakra didn't react to emotions alone.

_ 'Chakra could be very well some sort of mutation of magic,'_ Harry thought. _'It could be that what changed the world also affected the people. It made magic in them… different. Maybe weaker, maybe stronger, but different all the same. And people adapted to it, they adapted brilliantly. They harnessed their chakra into a weapon like nothing wizards could dream of….'_

He shook his head with slight amazement. If his theory was even close to right… not only had wizards gone from the useless race of cowards he had known into fearsome warriors, but all the fears of the Wizarding world had became true. Muggles and wizards were now living so intertwined amongst each other that they could no longer tell each other apart. _'Ah, if only Voldemort could see the world now…'_

Then another, more worrisome thought came to him. _'This… could be bad. If chakra is mutation of magic, or maybe evolution of magic…'_ Harry frowned, leaning back in his chair and staring down to the scroll before him. If it was mutation… then there was a chance he didn't have chakra and would never be able to grasp it. He, after all, hadn't gone through the same ordeals these shinobi and their ancestors had in order to gain their abilities. He hadn't gone through their evolution.

_'No, I won't accept that before I have the proof of it. There is still a chance that chakra and magic are so similar that I can use shinobi arts,'_ he thought determinately. _'There is no use giving up without trying.'_

"Toukou-san?" male voice interrupted his thoughts, making Harry notice that Inishie's black clad subordinate was standing beside him. "It is getting late. Shall I escort you to the guest quarters? You can continue your studies in the morning."

Harry blinked and then glanced at the library window. The last glow of setting sun was long gone and only now the wizard realised that his eyes stung. "Yeah, not a bad idea," he said, rolling the scroll shut and standing up. Walking past the shinobi, he took the scroll back to where he had found it, before throwing a glance at the other man. "Lead the way, shinobi-san."

"Ichiji," the masked man answered. "My name."

Harry raised his eyebrows. _'And I bet I look like I really care, too,'_ he thought and rolled his eyes. "Lead the way, Ichiji-san," he repeated.

Without a word the shinobi motioned him to proceed out of the library, before falling instep with Harry. _'Suspicious bunch these shinobi. Won't show their backs to me,'_ Harry mused with some measure of mirth. _'What do they expect me to do, take the first opportunity to blast them? What's the use of that?'_

Ichiji led him out of the library and into the streets of Yuraigakure. The village looked different without the light of sun exposing every little detail, Harry noted. The fact that the place had been recently built and the ground was still raw after all the building was almost invisible in the darkness.

_'Oh yeah, this reminds me…'_ Harry thought, turning his eyes upwards to see the star. The world had been changed since the last time he had seen it, but there was some things that couldn't be changed by anything humanity could conjure in the span of few hundred years. The wizard smiled as he recognised familiar constellation and stars in the sky. _'Yeah. The night sky are pretty much the same…'_ the thought was almost relieved, before his eyes landed on the moon. _'What the…'_

"Is there something wrong, Toukou-san?" his shinobi escort asked as Harry stopped to stare at the moon. The man glanced up and down to Harry again. "Toukou-san?"

The moon was different. White, just like the moon Harry remembered, but not the same. The shadows of it's surface were different; there were no dark oceans, no mountains, only plank whiteness with craters. And though to Harry's eyes the moon looked bigger than it was supposed to, he had oddest feeling that it was actually _smaller_. Much, much smaller than the moon Harry remembered. This one was just much closer, so it looked bigger.

"That is not the moon I know," Harry murmured and turned to look at the shinobi. "How many moons there are?"

"What are you talking about? There's just the one. That one," Ichiji answered, pointing upwards.

Harry eyed the man or a moment, glancing at his mind briefly, before looking up again. Ichiji was telling the truth, he only knew one moon, the one that was glowing down on them. But it wasn't right. _'That is not the right moon,'_ Harry thought more with confusion than anything else. _'It's way too close to Earth. What… where is the original moon?'_

Had the cataclysm destroyed the original moon too? Or had the moon been destroyed before it? Or misplaced somehow? Moon affected the Earth in many ways, it's sudden absence would have world of effects on the planet… _'But as the planet hasn't hurled into space or into the sun, I guess it didn't cause the world's end, what ever happened to the moon… but…'_ Harry frowned. Where had the new moon came from?

"Toukou-san?" Ichiji spoke. "Shouldn't we get going?"

The wizard sighed. "Yes… yes alright, let's go," he muttered, throwing another look at the foreign moon.

Both the idea that something had destroyed a moon and the idea that something had created one bothered him. Moons didn't just pop out of nothing after all, nor were they exactly easy things to destroy. And considering how much magical effect the original moon had had on the Earth…

Harry shuddered. _'Alright, that's it. Colour me highly disturbed,'_ he mused. For the first time since waking up, he felt nervous.

xx

Okay, this one. I rather liked this one, the time I was writing it. I enjoyed Harry - somehow immoral characters are just so much more fun to write. And I had a plot planned, too. Well, sort of. It involved Harry losing his wand, figuring out his physiology doesn't allow him to use chakra, and getting generally pissed off at his lot in life. He avoids getting involved with the war, but enjoys the chances it offers - like finding out half dead shinobi and legilimising the hell out of them. Shinobi Art collecting via Legilimency was supposed to become his slightly immoral hobby. Then, eventually, he accidentally expresses some kindness towards an orphaned kid, who promptly decides to follow him around. After initial annoyance, Harry takes the kid under his wing, sort of speak, names him, carries him around when the kid's narcolepsy attacks, and eventually even teaches him some Ninjutsu. (The kid, whom Harry was meant to name "Suihou" which means bubble after the soap-bubble-toy the kid lugs around, was my canon/oc jinchuuriki of the something-tailed slug.) Eventually Harry would somehow end up in cahoots with the Fourth Hokage and somehow the said Fourth Hokage was meant to blackmail Harry into teaching shinobi arts at the Academy - as by that time, Harry has acquired quite repertoire of ill-gotten shinobi knowledge. (I think I might've been planning Harry x Minato slash, but I'm not sure) Oh yeah, and Harry was going to at some point learn how to summon and his contract would've been with owls, with gigantic white owl being his signature summon.

I think that was about all of it for this story. I'm still kind of hoping to one day continue this one, Asshole!Harry was so much fun to write.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	14. Brilliant madness, HP x DrWho cross

Warnings: reality is screwy and the Doctor is slightly mad and babbles a lot. Harry Potter x Doctor Who Crossover

**Brilliant madness  
**

Harry frowned. It was the weirdest sensation, to frown. He wasn't even sure if he had a face anymore but he was frowning. Maybe it was rather like a feeling or emotion instead of expression, frowning. He was feeling a frown. It made no sense.

He could hear singing. A wordless, fathomless song made of multitude of voices and none of them human. They sounded like worlds and suns and moons and stars, galaxies and supernovas, all singing in single voice, gentle and sorrowful. It sounded like Phoenix song sang by millions and millions of Phoenixes. They were singing to _someone_. Not for him, but he didn't care about that. It was beautiful, heart breaking and mind-blowing at the same time. The universe was humming in tune with the song. It was incredible.

But in the song, something groaned. Like in pain, like metal being bend into wrong direction.

His head hurt, his entire body hurt. He tried to turn to his side to curl into a foetal position but he was stuck somehow. It was even stranger than frowning without knowing if you had a face to frown with. He didn't have a body - or maybe he did. Maybe it was being squeezed so tightly at all directions that he simply couldn't move. Or maybe it was scattered in so many pieces that he couldn't control any of them. Either way, he was stuck, but strangely enough, not in body. You needed a body to be bodily stuck.

It was like his very existence was stuck - even if that made even less sense than frowning without a face. And yet it felt like that, exactly like that. Like his limps, his bones, his muscles - the very cells of his body - were stuck in place. Like they weren't moving. It was like he was stuck in an iron mould shaped like him down to every atom of his body.

The singing was still there but the groaning sound was getting stronger, cutting through it like lightning bolt made of dull sound.

This wasn't right, he thought again frowning not in body because his body wasn't allowed to move. It wasn't supposed to be like this. But how had this happened, how had he ended up like this?

Had he died?

Harry thought about it for a while, and ended up in the conclusion that he probably had. He could remember it. Walking to the forest to face Voldemort for the last time. He remembered the killing curse - he had taken it willingly, without bothering to defend himself. He had been surrounded by ghosts. By scent of wood and moist moss. He didn't remember falling to the ground, though. He must've died before that.

Well… this wasn't quite what he had imagined Afterlife to be like. His parents, Sirius and Remus had made it seem a bit… less tight. Airy, that was the word. They had made Afterlife seem airy. This was much too tight and strict and just plain uncomfortable. He wasn't even sure if he needed to breathe anymore but the inability to do so was pretty unbearable. Would it always be like this?

Maybe it was some sort of limbo, and not the Afterlife itself. He couldn't see anything - he wasn't even sure if there _was_ anything there. Though it could've been that he had no eyes left to see with. Still, the limbo theory maybe made sense. He was just stuck here for a moment and then he would go to Afterlife like all the other dead people. Right? The only problem was that he had no idea how long he had been like this. Or how long he would continue to be so.

The odd groaning sound was getting louder, much louder than the signing though he could still hear it. He couldn't shake the feeling that the singing was coming from the universe itself. The entire reality around him was singing - and it was singing _for_ someone. At someone. Whichever. Somewhere there was someone to whom the entire universe was singing. And something was tearing through that song, the song of the universe.

Something was tearing through the universe?

Before the thought could develop further, the groaning sound turned into a sound of something hitting against something hard and as the breath Harry hadn't even realised he had was knocked out of his lungs, he realised that the sound came from him. Then the pain and the stars in his eyes and the fact that he was falling took even that away and gasping with it all he fell to the floor, his knees bucking under his weight.

"What?" Confused male voice asked as Harry fell face down to the floor - which wasn't really a floor at all, but some sort of metal grating. "What, what is this now? Hey, what…? Oi, how did you…?"

Harry groaned, trying to turn so that his nose wasn't pressing into the metal so awkwardly. His shoulders hurt so judging by that he had slammed against something shoulders first. Well, it was better than slamming against it head first. Wait. He had shoulders? And a head? Nose too judging by the fact that it was hurting.

He was turned to his back rather roughly. As he blinked - and wasn't that wicked, he had eyes too - he saw an odd roof or maybe a wall arching over him, some sort of… frames or maybe pillars holding the roof. They kind of looked like trees. Or roots. There was a man kneeling beside him, staring at him with utterly perplexed look about his face. "No," the man said, shaking his head in denial while pulling his hands off Harry's shoulders as if the wizard burned. "No, no, no, no, you can't be here."

"Excuse me?" Harry asked. "Wow, a voice," he then murmured, raising his hand - a _hand_ - to his throat - awesome he had one of those too! "I wasn't sure I still had a voice." He coughed and frowned - now with a face. "Why wouldn't I have a voice?" he asked more to himself than anyone else. Everyone had a voice. And hand and throat - why was he assuming that he wouldn't have them? "Oh yeah… the death thing, right," he murmured.

"You," the man, now standing over him, pointed a very accusing finger at him. "You aren't supposed to be here. You _can't_ be here. You don't _belong_ here."

"I'm sorry?" Harry more asked than apologised, taking in the man looming over him. As memories of the forest and death came back to him, he frowned again. "Am I dead?"

"No such luck. How did you _get_ here? Who, who are you, what galaxy, what planet? No wait, I don't need to know that, it wouldn't make any difference - I can already tell you're not from around here, and I mean _really_ not from around here. Just tell me how you got here so that I can send you back your merry way and forget you ever intruded this reality," the man spoke rabidly, nodding to himself before looking at Harry executively. "Well?"

Harry stared at the man for a moment and then tilted his head a bit to the side because looking at the man sideways wasn't helping him get his head straight. "What?" he then asked.

"How - did - you - get - here?" the man asked slowly, pronouncing each word very carefully. "Chop chop, quickly now so that I can send you off again. Come on!"

"Um…" Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. Then, after a moment of thought, he opened it again. "I don't even know where _here_ is," he answered and pointed his finger up and at the man. "Listen, before you go on again, mate, first things first," he said. "I'm not dead?"

The man stared at him for a moment before raising his eyebrows. "Well, you don't look dead," he answered before crouching down again and pulling out a device which looked like useless futuristic torch. It flashed and made odd sounds as the man ran the thing over Harry. "Well, your heart is beating. Sort of. But you're not from around here so I'm not exactly sure what to make of that. Might be that in your universe your heart starts to beat after your death," he snorted. "Bloody antireality."

"Okay, my heart is sort of beating," Harry nodded and took a deep breath. "Ah, I'm sort of breathing too! That's a good sign," he nodded to himself before turning his eyes to the man. "You can go on again now," he offered. "I'm good."

"How did you get here and how do I send you back?" the man asked, frowning while shutting the useless looking futuristic torch and slipping it to his pocket.

"I don't know," Harry answered. "I got someplace?" he asked and looked around. After a moment of staring at the weird room, he settled down again. "Yeah, I got someplace," he agreed, turning his eyes to the other. "Where is this place?"

"Here there anywhere - it's a ship that can travel through time and space and so forth - and you're not supposed to be here," the man answered, taking Harry in with very troubled look about him. "Seriously. How did you get here? What's the last thing you remember?"

Harry frowned. "Forest," he said. "I should be dead. Yeah, I took a killing curse to the chest, I should be dead. Why am I not dead?"

"Killing curs - oh you got to be kidding me!" The so far nameless man stood up, throwing his hands up. "You're from _Earth_? Oh this is bloody fantastic, absolutely peachy, brilliant!" he threw a glare at Harry, starting to pace. "You're from antireality, from Earth - from Britain by the sound of your bloody accent too - how do I sort this thing out?" he groaned and stopped. "What's the date?" he demanded to know. "The date, tell me the date, what's the date!"

"Third of May nineteen ninety eight?" Harry asked, trying to sit up so that he could put some distance between himself and the crazy man.

"Aw, that's even worse," the man moaned, starting to pace again. "Bleeding antireality spits a walking talking rift in reality at me from Earth from Great Britain from the goddamned nineties…" he muttered, tilting his head to the side. "Well, that explains why you ended up crash-landing on the Tardis. Frankly, Tardis is probably closest thing you have to a kin around here, and like attracts like with your sort, or so I've heard. Ugh, this is not good, this is so not good…"

"Rift in reality," Harry murmured sitting up and rubbing the back of his head to see if he had knocked it against the wall when he had, apparently, crash landed. "Never been called that before." He checked his hand but thankfully he didn't seem to be bleeding. "So, what's going on here?" he asked, peering up to the pacing man. "I'm Harry Potter, by the way."

"Your reality spit you into mine, except you're from a reality where reality itself debateable whilst in this reality we follow the rules of reality. Because of that, while you are perfectly normal there, you are an abnormality in here. A rift, a foreign element, a hole in the very fabric of this universe, and if you're allowed to remain here for too long you might cause a catastrophic collapse and destroy everything this entire reality, universe and all I've ever known," the man snapped back. "I'm the Doctor, pleased to meet you."

"Enchanted," Harry nodded. "I travelled in between realities? I didn't think it was possible."

"It's not supposed to be. Your reality has been locked away from all the others ever since it was discovered since it had the bad habit of destroying other realities," the Doctor muttered, pointing his finger at Harry. "You're great big bomb of antimatter in matter filled reality. One step to left or right and we all go kaboom - though it will probably be more like crash and then we will all circle down the drain which is _you_."

"I'm sorry," Harry offered confusedly. "I'm a _drain_?"

"More like a hole than a drain," the man said, suddenly crouching right before Harry. "You see, you're from a very weird reality. Things are bit screwy there. Certain laws of physics which are solid here don't even exist in your reality. You're… you're one of those power users? Wizards, whatever, right?"

"Yes," Harry nodded slowly.

"Right. So, you have this power. No one in this universe has that power - that power doesn't exist here because it defies the rules and limitations of this reality. It _can't_ exist here. It can in your reality because it's all screwy, but this one isn't screwy enough to handle it," the Doctor grimaced and made a rather violent motion with his hands. "People like you, when you come here, you're like rifts. Or like gravity wells. In reality itself. You _bend_ things."

"And that's bad?" Harry asked.

"It's catastrophically bad!" the man said. "You _negate_ the laws of nature. You bend time and reality. Imagine, walking on a planet's surface when the sun suddenly disperses into nothing and the gravity stops working? You could cause that!"

"I could destroy suns, and planets… and this reality?" Harry asked. "Just by being here?"

"Exactly! That is why I need to send you back before you do that!" the Doctor nodded, standing up. "So how did you do it? How did you get here?"

"I don't know," the wizard answered, standing up. "I thought I just died and then I woke up here - or wait… I woke up somewhere elsewhere," he murmured and nodded to himself. "That was kind of weird."

"I can imagine, what with travelling between realities," the Doctor muttered. "You have really no idea how you got here?" he then asked before taking out his odd futuristic fake torch again and aiming at Harry's head. It again made odd sounds. "Oh, you're really weird," the man muttered before smiling all of sudden. "If you weren't about to destroy the reality this might be exciting. I haven't seen your sort before. Only heard of you."

"Look who's talking - and what the hell is that thing you're aiming at me?" Harry asked, closing his left eye when the Doctor aimed the weird blue light at his eye.

"It's a… screwdriver."

"Oh. A screwdriver. Doesn't look like one. Why are you aiming your screwdriver at my face?" the wizard glanced at the thing.

"It's sonic," the Doctor said solemnly as if it explained everything before frowning again. He was aiming the device at Harry's forehead now. "You wouldn't happen to have two minds or something like that, your people?"

"Nah, I don't think so. Well, some of us might but its bit of a taboo to do it," Harry said, thinking about Quirrell and grimacing at the memory. Then he shrugged. "I might have two souls, though," he added, thinking back to the Horcrux business. Damned Voldemort.

"Well, one of them is dead. There's still some residue left, but… it's mostly gone," the man murmured. "How can you have two souls in you and only one of them dies?"

"I was sort of possessed," Harry answered with a shrug. "It's dead? Really?" he asked and the Doctor nodded. "Well… that's good at least," he mused. Now Voldemort couldn't use him in his resurrection at least - in case someone managed to kill him. "So, what are we going to do about this reality rift thing?" he asked. "You're gonna kill me or something?"

The Doctor pulled the screwdriver back sharply, giving him a shocked look. Then he seemed to seriously think about it for a moment before shaking his head. "No, no, no, no, that would make it worse. Right now the rift is contained within you, that will make it harder for it to affect space and time around you - if you die it'll be set loose on this reality and there is no way to contain it…" he stopped and suddenly snapped his fingers. "Contain it! Of course, of course, I can contain it! No way, how do you contain a rift in reality…?" he walked away suddenly, muttering all the way. "Well, it's inside living being, that makes it a little bit easier, if I can manage to make it _stay_ inside you, then… then you won't destroy this reality, which would be fantastic! But how do I do that…?"

Harry rubbed his neck and rolled his shoulders to get rid of the residue stiffness while the man paced along some sort of central pillar. Except it wasn't a pillar at all. While Harry eyed the odd table or desktop or whatever it was with a huge glass tube in middle of it, the Doctor kept on mumbling to himself. Then, without warning, the man turned around and pointed both his forefingers at Harry. "Heart of the Tardis!"

"I thought I was rift in space?" the wizard answered confusedly.

"Not _you_! I will contain you like the Heart of the Tardis! Well not you, but the thing inside you - the rift, the energy, whatever you want to call you. Hah!" the man shouted triumphantly and promptly ran away.

"You're a bit bipolar, you know that?" Harry shouted after him.

"I know!" the man shouted back. The words were followed by the sound of objects hitting the metal floors haphazardly before the man ran back, holding pair of what looked like leather cuffs. "I'm also _brilliant,_" the man grinned while kneeling beside Harry and slapping the cuffs to teen's wrists. Thankfully they weren't connected by a chain or anything like that, at least yet, but Harry still felt slightly put out when they tightened around his wrists.

"What are these?" Harry asked while the Doctor pulled out his so called sonic screwdriver, whatever that was, and started doing something to the cuffs.

"These are personal shield generators from funny race called the Leegors, long gone these days, don't imagine you have ever heard of them," the man answered, tugging Harry's hand into certain position to work on the leather cuff. "These days shield generators like these are useless, what with lasers and bullets all that, but back then these were used to protect a person against certain sort of radiation which the Leegors used as a weapon. Ended up killing themselves when they discovered sonic waves…"

"Okay," Harry said. "And that is going to help me not to destroy your universe… how?"

"Well, with little bit of tinkering I can reconfigure the device not to protect you but contain you. Or contain the effect you have, the energy you might emit. Of course normally a mere shield wouldn't be even nearly enough to contain a rift in reality itself, but thankfully these are specially made," the man grinned wildly. "See Leegors, they had this thing about using organic technology. These cuffs are essentially alive, so when I tune them to your DNA…"

Harry shivered as the leather cuffs tightened slightly and a shiver of light passed over his skin. The Doctor's grin widened. "Excellent. That should hold you off for a while."

"What…?" Harry blinked confusedly and touched the cuffs. They felt like skin, living skin - there was even veins in them. "What, how… how do they work?" he asked and gasped when he realised that he couldn't get even a finger nail under the cuffs. "Hey, are these things attached to my skin?"

"Yep. Part of you," the Doctor nodded, standing up and folding his hands. He looked insufferably pleased with himself. "Best way to contain you is to make a shield which is part of you. That way the shield will promptly react if the rift in you does anything. Now there is absolutely no way that power inside you will escape."

Harry blinked, wrapping his fingers around the left cuff. "You mean I can't use it?" he asked and the Doctor nodded smugly. "I can't use my magic. Ever?"

"Well, you might if the cuffs break but I doubt they will. Organic technology is hard to break, it tends to regenerate," the man grinned widely. "Perfect for things like this, wouldn't you say?"

The wizard opened his mouth for a moment, and then closed it. Then he opened it again. "What about when I get _home_?" he asked. "Into the… the antireality. I will need my magic then, you know."

"Well, do you know how to get back?" the Doctor asked, leaning back against one of the tree-like pillar frame work things.

"Well, no, but I assumed that you…"

"Nope, can't do it. Impossible these days - used to be pretty common in the old days but that was long ago," the man grimaced. "If you had used some sort of device or something like that, then I might've been able to send you back but if you were send here by a _curse_ then there's nothing I can do - and I can't allow you do try either. Do magic here and the universe might get sick."

Harry stared at the man with disbelief and was given a wild, almost boyish grin in return. "I'm stuck," Harry said after a moment of tense silence. "I'm stuck in alternate reality and you blocked my magic."

"Well… yes," the Doctor agreed. "You got a problem with that?"

Harry thought about it. There was his life with wizards and magic and Hogwarts and all that, there was Hermione and Ginny and Ron and everyone else - and Teddy too, his godson! But then again he had sort of decided to die and then there was the whole thing about Voldemort and the war and everything. Harry weighed the options. "Am I going to be stuck here forever?" he asked slowly. "Until I die?"

"Yes, well… there's that," the Doctor agreed. "I can't exactly let you die, now can I? Not when the rift inside you would be released the moment you did," he pursed his lips in thought before snorting. "I need to figure out how to make sure that you don't die while this reality still exists… To make you live until the end of the universe itself, otherwise the universe will end up ending lot sooner than it's supposed to," the man muttered before grinning. "That's, what, trillion years, or there about? Now _there's_ a challenge!"

"Tri - _trillion years_?" Harry asked flatly as the man took off again, this time heading to the odd circular table thing in the middle. "That's mad. This is mad. _You're_ mad!"

"I know! Wonderful, isn't it?"

Harry stared after him for a moment before deciding that there was not much sense he could make about that. Instead of trying to keep up, he tried to stand up. As a sudden dizzy spell hit him, he took hold of a metal baluster… thing next to him to keep himself balanced. "Why do you have balusters inside a room this small?" he asked confusedly, eying the metal.

"Small? Small, the Tardis isn't small!" the Doctor threw a look at him over his shoulder. "It's how big I need it to be - or how big it wants to be, that's happened a few times…"

"Balusters?" Harry asked again before the mad man could trail away again.

"Ah, yes. They're for balance," the other nodded before turning back to the consoles.

"Balance. Right," Harry murmured. After moment of considering it he decided that he didn't really care. Stumbling forward a little, he approached the console the Doctor was working at. "This whole place looks like it was thrown together at the last minute - or just thrown together using whatever scrap metal one can find in a junk yard," he murmured, looking down. He could see some sort of machinery underneath the metal floor.

"Oi, lay off on the Tardis," the Doctor glared at him, pointing a very accusing finger at Harry. "The Tardis a piece of art, that's what it is."

"What is this place anyway?" Harry asked, ignoring the man.

"I told you, it's the _Tardis_. Time And Relative Dimension In Space," the Doctor answered, throwing a somewhat insulted look at Harry. "Travels anywhere and anytime in the known universe. Backwards, forwards, sideways…"

"So it's a… time travelling… space ship?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, generally speaking, yeah," the man answered, throwing a look at the wizard. "You don't seem too shocked."

"We have time travelling too. No spaceships yet, but time travelling has been around for a while. Did it myself once, kind of disconcerting." Harry shrugged, eying the odd central machinery, whatever it was. If it really was what the man said it was, it was probably the most extraordinary thing he had seen, and he had seen a few. For an extraordinary thing it looked rather unimpressive though. "How far can it travel?"

"As far as there is space and time - it doesn't really have much of limit these days. I could travel to the beginning and to the end of the known universe if I liked to…" the Doctor trailed away before turning to Harry, looking shocked and then disheartened. "Oh come on! I was having fun thinking of a way to make you live a little longer! I haven't actually tried that before you know, I'm big fan of keeping humans the way they are, you see. And here you go and…" he made a frustrated motion with his hands, before stopping. "On other hand, I have never seen the end of the universe. Furthest I've gone forward is billions of years at best…"

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked with a sigh.

"When you're about to die, I'll take you to the end of the known universe, and I mean the end, _the end_," the man said with an irritated nod. "That way when you die, you can die away without destroying much since by then much of it is long gone anyway." The man huffed out a sigh, folding his hands and regarding Harry with a sort of annoyed appreciation. "Fantastic idea in it's own right. Not as much fun as mine, though."

"Um… it was your idea," Harry said slowly.

The Doctor thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. "No, it was obviously yours."

"No it wasn't," the wizard denied.

"Was."

"_Wasn't_," Harry said, now frowning. "End of the universe, who thinks that? I didn't even know universes end, I thought they keep on going until… forever," he stopped. "Wait, does this mean that you're going to take me to this… end and kill me there?"

"What? You think I'd… _No, _of course not! How do you come up with this stuff?" the Doctor gave him a disturbed look which Harry met with distrusting one. "I don't kill people, thank you _very much_," the man said in very clear tones before pointing accusing finger at Harry. "You are not right in the head. Who kills people that easily?

"Lot of people," Harry answered hesitatingly. "You're not going to kill me?"

"_No, _I am_ not_ going to kill you."

"I'd be out of your hair," Harry said, glancing up to the man's head and trying again. "I wouldn't be a problem anymore if you did."

"Do you _want_ to die?" the Doctor asked, giving him a slightly worried look.

"No, of course I don't. I'm just saying -"

"You don't want to die, I don't want to kill you, therefore, the discussion is over," the Doctor said with finality, even clapping his hands sharply together. "So, what was I doing before you interrupted me?"

"I have no idea," Harry answered, lifting his hand up and rubbing his eyes. He was almost startled when his fingers encountered his glasses. Stopping mid motion, he pulled them off his face and eyed them for a moment. He had his glasses. Hadn't they fallen off? Looking down to himself he noticed that he also seemed to have robes on. His robes, dirt and tears and all.

"Something wrong?" the Doctor asked curiously.

"No, I don't… no, I suppose not," Harry muttered, pushing his glasses back on before rummaging through his pockets. He encountered a wand, Draco Malfoy's wand, as well as his Invisibility Cloak. He also had the Mokeskin pouch, which he took off from his neck before rummaging the insides. The broken Holly wand was there, along with the now open Snitch, the fake Horcrux locket and the piece of a letter from his mother.

"Fancy how all that fit in there," the Doctor remarked as Harry pulled all the items out of the pouch.

"It's bigger in the inside," Harry answered while giving his holly wand a heartbroken look and shoving it back to the pouch.

"You know, these things are magical," Harry said, glancing up to the man. "Why aren't you getting all panicky over them."

"I already scanned it earlier, all you have on you. That stuff is fixed. The best it can do is make a little turbulence in the reality, but I doubt it can even do that. Not much power in them," the Doctor shrugged. "You, on other hand, are holding a _living_ rift inside you. That's what's dangerous, not these inanimate fixed things which probably -"

Harry gasped as the Indivisibility Cloak he was holding suddenly seemed to turn rougher, more material than the usual airy silk it seemed to be. It seemed almost like wither in his hand into something more real and less magical… and then it crumbled like dust, leaving Harry holding handful of what looked like flakes of burned paper.

"- disperse," the Doctor finished and shrugged his shoulders. "All your special items which have been created in antireality can't work here. They need to energies of your reality, the rules… and those are different here. And unlike you, who has your own power to stand by, they are just inanimate objects. They're not living."

Harry quickly looked at the other items but none of them seemed like they were going to fall apart. "Why only the Invisibility Cloak?" he asked confusedly. "Why the others aren't falling apart?"

"More reality in them, less antireality. I suppose that thing was mostly made by energies and such that don't exist here," the Doctor said, motioning at the dust of the Invisibility Cloak. "The rest of your things are more similar to the matter of this reality."

"So, my clothes aren't going to fall apart or anything, that's good to know," Harry sighed, staring at the dust in his hand. He smiled sadly. "The only thing I had left from my father," he murmured. "Turned to dust."

There was a moment of awkward silence as Harry said goodbye to the Invisibility Cloak whilst the Doctor apparently didn't know what to say. Then Harry brushed the dust off his hand and pushed all his apparently useless items to his pocket. "Alright then," he said. "So, just to be clear… I'm in alternate reality. You blocked my magic because I could destroy your reality with it. In order prevent that from happening, you are going take me to the end of this universe when I die so that I can do so without destroying anything."

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. What of it?" the Doctor asked.

"One thing. What if I end up dying when you're not here?" Harry asked. "I'm younger than you. What if I die of old age? And you can't keep taps on me all the time. Besides, what if I die suddenly, like of heart attack? Or someone kills me?"

"Good points, all of 'em," the Doctor said, nodding solemnly. "First of all, I'm pretty long lived so that isn't a problem. And two… hmm…" he trailed away. "I suppose you can't leave my sight. No, better yet, you can't leave the Tardis. I can make it so that when you are about to die, the Tardis will automatically transport itself to the end of the universe and reality. That's… now that I think about it, that's pretty much the safest way to go about this."

Harry nodded slowly. "You mean I can't leave this place?" he asked just to be sure. "Ever?"

"Only way to make sure that when you die you do it at a right place at the right time." The Doctor grimaced. "If it's any consolation, the Tardis lot bigger than it looks," he offered.

There was a moment of silence and Harry was just about to ask how the man could be content having him around until he died before Doctor grinned widely. "Just kidding," he said. "I'll figure something out. The Tardis isn't the only way to travel through time - there are all sorts of gadgets, gimmicks - capsules too! - here and there. We'll just get one for you, rig it to transport you at the unfortunate occurrence that you will die and… universe will be safe. You'll have to stay inside the Tardis before we find one, but it shouldn't take long."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I hate you a little," he said, lifting his hand and holding his forefinger and thump at distance. "Just a little bit."

"You'll get over it," the Doctor promised, clapping his hands to get. "So, what kind of time travelling device shall we get for you, hm? You can't have one like Tardis, I'm afraid - impossible to get these days you see - but maybe something smaller. A rift manipulator perhaps… something human made, that ought to work best," he rubbed his hands together. "Something fifty-first century maybe…"

"F-fifty first century?"

"Yes. Fancy a trip?"

**Omake**

"That's mad. This is mad. _You're_ mad!"

"Madness?" the Doctor stopped, suddenly grinning even wider than before. He spread his hands wildly. "This… is… TARDIS!"

Harry stared him with his mouth hanging open for a moment while the Doctor raised his eyebrows like anticipating some sort of special reaction. "You're insane," the wizard finally said.

"Bit too much for you? Wait, you haven't seen the movie yet. Hasn't came out in your world, huh? Ah, never mind. Besides you're the one to speak, Mr. Wizard," the man sniffed. "Being Wizard and all from another reality - the antireality for that matter. Guh. What did you say your name was again?"

"Harry Potter," Harry answered rolling his eyes. "Do you have an actual name or would it somehow damage the veil of mystery you shroud yourself in?"

The man stopped and blinked. "Harry Potter? Get out of here! Really?" he asked, bowing a little to peer Harry more closely. Then he grinned, took Harry's hand, and shook it hard. "What a pleasure! I _love_ the books. Seventh one made me cry," he nodded solemnly before straightening up. "Never met a fictional character before. Blimey, a moment for the fanfiction, this one!"

xx

I have no explanation whatsoever. My apologies for possible grammar errors


	15. Quiet Calm, Snape centric, post Hallows

Warnings: Nothing really happens. Post Hallows story, with Snape having survived being bitten and all.

**Quiet calm**

"You're a hard man to find, you know."

Potter had changed, was Severus's first thought as he found the man from his doorsteps. His last memory of the former brat was a dirty, skinny, battle worn teenager wearing half ruined robes looking down to him with horrified wide eyes.

This man before him was anything but that. He was older, twenty three if Severus's calculations were right, and it showed everywhere in him. He was wearing muggle clothes as casually as muggles themselves, his frame healthy and muscular underneath them. His face was more mature, no longer as bony as it had been, but still rather thin. His eyes had been narrowed down by age. The new, square rimmed glasses fit him better than the awful round ones he had once worn. They made him look more mature.

"I didn't want to be found," Severus said, because he didn't know what else to say. When the younger man merely smiled, the former headmaster of Hogwarts frowned. "Have you come here to arrest me?" He knew, from what little he had heard of the Wizarding world these days, that Potter was not only an Auror, but Head of the Auror Office as well. Had been for few years now. As such, there could only be one reason for his arrival - or two, but Potter was too good a person to go after personal vendettas.

"Arrest you? Of course not," Potter snorted. "Can I come in?"

"No, you cannot," Severus scowled. He had left he Wizarding world behind for a reason, he had hidden him away for a reason, and he most certainly did not want Potter of all people in his house after his years of seclusion. "And what do you mean, of course not? Am I not a wanted person now that you run the world?"

"I don't run the world," the younger man snorted again and then to Severus's utter annoyance pushed past him and into the hall. "Haven't you been reading the papers at all?" when Severus only scowled, Potter's amusement melted into a slight smile. "You've been long since pardoned and forgiven from anything you've done or have been accused of doing. It was easy enough to do, thanks to your memories."

"If I'm not a wanted man, what are you doing here, then?" the darker man snarled.

"Well, first of all, to give you this," Potter said, pulling out a parchment envelope and handing it to the older man. "Go on, take it," he said when the other hesitated. "It's not going to bite you."

Severus eyed the envelope with mistrust for a moment before accepting it. "You can't be serious," he said after reading it. "Order of Merlin, first class? What rubbish is this?"

"Exactly what it says," Potter said. "It was granted a few years back actually but you were never there to receive it. I've used my spare time to try and find you to give it to you, but as you can see, it took me a while." He rubbed his throat. "Do you have anything to drink here? I'm parched."

"I'm not going to welcome you into my house Potter. You might as well leave and take this silly piece of rubbish with you," Snape said, but of course the younger man ignored him, toeing his sneakers off and heading right into the house. "Potter!"

"Looks like a nice place," the younger man murmured, looking around in the sitting room with curiosity and making Severus cringe. His lounge area consisted mostly of second hand furniture that badly matched each other and bookshelves of varying sizes that covered the living room walls. "Cosy," was Potter's casual verdict.  
"Potter, get out," Severus snapped at him. "Now."

"A book was written about the war against Voldemort," the brat spoke like he hadn't said anything. "Nothing like that stupid drivel Rita Skeeter sprouted out, but actual book. I and just about everyone were interviewed for it and your memories were used for it too - not all of them," he assured as Severus inhaled sharply. "Just the ones which were relevant."

"And why should I give a damn?" the older wizard asked irritably.

"Because it cleared your name. You're looked up as sort of a hero these days - or anti-hero I should say," Potter answered. "Sure there are still some stupid extremists around who still bring out old prejudices and such, but they are rare these days. And with me, most of the war heroes and Minister Kingsley standing behind the book, I can happily say that most people believe the truth these days."

"They made Kingsley the Minister?" Severus asked almost reluctantly, not really wishing to show any interest but not helping himself.

"Yes. He was intern Minister for a while but he was so good at it that we decided to keep him. He makes the muggle Prime Minister happy too - they're sort of friends." Potter said while sitting down to the nearest seat. "So, do you have anything to drink?"

"I'm not going to serve you," the potions master snapped.

"No?" Potter asked almost disappointedly before taking out his wand. Unwittingly Severus took half a step backwards but Potter made no note of it while conjuring a glass out of thin air and then filling it with water. "You can relax you know," he then said before gulping down most of the water in one go. "Ah, much better," he muttered and vanished the glass.

"You could come back, though," the younger man then said. "Your expertise with the Dark Arts, the defence against them and your skills with potions are too valuable to lose. Do you know how many decent potions makers we lost at the war? More than we can bare. St. Mungos has had deficiency of potions for years and it's not the only magical hospital in Britain. Ministry no longer keeps it own potions stores either, all potions makes we have are concentrating onto supplying those in need. It's still not enough, though."

Severus scowled slightly but he had to admit that the words did make him thoughtful. He had known that the losses of the war had been severe, but… "I guess the Dark Lord didn't care about sparing skilled potions makers with me on his side," he muttered mostly to himself than to Potter.

"That's what we thought too," Potter nodded, eying him hopefully. "Of course potions makes aren't the only experts we are lacking. Kingsley and McGonagall actually threw up a master-apprentice system in hopes of educating more specialists to cover for those we lost quicker than the original system would've. Slughorn has three apprentices already, though he's still teaching at Hogwarts… but still, it will take some ten years before it will start to effect. Before it does, we need all potions makers we can get…" he trailed away. "We'd make it worth your while. Especially if you'd agree to take apprentice or two."

The former headmaster of Hogwarts turned his eyes away. It was tempting. He hadn't exactly been enjoying the muggle life he had created for himself in the last five years. It had been peaceful and calm and boring beyond belief. He had missed potions dearly, unable to brew them properly without ordering the right ingredients - and that would have drawn attention to him so he hadn't.

"What happened to Draco and the Malfoys?" he then asked.

"Pardoned. Lucius is under house arrest though, and will be for the next fifteen years - twenty years originally," Potter answered. "Draco was, for a while, Slughorn's apprentice but it didn't work out between them. He's working in the ministry now, as consultant but mostly he's concentrated into making donations and charity work - you know, rebuilding his family name. Oh, he's married too. To Astoria Greengrass."

Severus nodded. That was a relief to hear. Lucius Malfoy had been a friend and Draco had always had great potential with potions. "How come they weren't send into Azkaban?"

"Well, Narcissa sort of helped me kill Voldemort. Well, she helped me play dead. And Draco Malfoy wouldn't give me up to Voldemort during the war. I figured that in the end they weren't as nasty as they seemed to be," Potter shrugged. "Of course they went through a Veritaserum trial. Draco and Lucius had both used Unforgivables but only Lucius had managed to actually kill someone."

"The ministry is using Veritaserum in trials?" Severus asked.

"Not only in trials. New policy is that each member of the ministry will have to submit themselves to Veritaserum inquiry once a year. Kingsley's running the ministry with firm hand," Potter grinned and then shuddered. "I've gone through the inquiry already five times. It's never exactly easy, but it's all confidential."

"You've gone through it too?" Severus asked with a sneer. "No Boy-Who-Lived privileges?"

"They were offered. I declined - I didn't want to give the future ministry workers any chance to worm their way out of the inquiries. The minister is no exception either - Kingsley's is tested with Veritaserum four times a year," the younger man sighed. "Though the common use of Veritaserum is taxing our potions makers too."

"I bet," Severus muttered. It was a hard potion to make and took a long time. Not just anyone could do it. "I see that… things have changed."

"Hm-hmm," Potter nodded. "For the better I hope. Of course it's impossible to weed out all the corruption - Department of Mysteries is still trying to wheedle out of the Veritaserum trials… But I think we've made progress." He was quiet for a moment. "So… are you interested?"

"Of returning?" Severus asked with a frown.

"And working for the ministry as potions maker."

Severus looked away. He wanted to, he admitted that. Being acknowledged for the things he had done and been forced to do in the war and for his talents… it was very appealing to him. But in the same time the five years of constant fear that any moment now someone would come and throw him into Azkaban… "I'll think about it," he finally said.

"Excellent," Potter said with a satisfied smile and stood up. "When you decide, send me a letter. I live in Grimmauld place these days, and the Fidelius has been broken, so either owl or muggle post will do." He already sounded sure that Severus would accept.

"What if I decide no?" Severus asked out of tired curiosity.

"Then you can expect me to come around every now and then to bother you about it," the brat grinned before turning serious. "It's your choice, though. If you decide against it, it's your right."

Severus searched his eyes, from afar seeing the blockage of Occlumency. The brat had finally managed to close his mind it seems. But still the potions master could tell that Potter was serious. With small measure of gratitude and hefty amount of relief, Severus nodded and watched as Harry Potter swiftly waltzed out of his house.

x

After he had spend few days thinking about it, Severus decided what to do. It was rather obvious choice. He had never enjoyed muggle life after all. The note of acceptance he ended up sending to Potter was short but to the point. "Fine. But I'm not moving."

After sending it, he wasn't entirely surprised to find Potter at his porch again in the following morning, this time carrying a shoulder bag with him. The Auror grinned at him sheepishly. "I have some parchment for you, there are some forms you need to sign and I need to give you the Veritaserum inquiry. I figured you'd rather have me do it privately rather than going to the ministry and doing the inquiry to the other Aurors."

"You thought somewhat correctly," Severus eyebrow twitched with irritation but he let the younger man inside. "That is somewhat of a flaw in your ministry security though, letting the inquiry be held out of ministry grounds."

"Well, not really. I'm going to have to do an extra inquiry about your inquiry to the rest of the department," Harry shrugged, leaving his shoes to the hall before following the elder wizard to the living room. "First of all," he said, staring to pull out scrolls of parchment from his bag. "List of the potions we need. They're sorted by priority," he said and handed a scroll to Severus.

The potions master unrolled it and read through it. They were mostly healing potions and most of them had words _to St. Mungos_ written after them. Veritaserum, surprisingly enough, wasn't in the list. "Who makes your Veritaserum?" he asked.

"Slughorn mostly," Harry answered and handed him another parchment. "List of possible apprentices if you're interested in that. These are all people who have joined the apprentice program, but have yet to find masters."

Severus eyed the list, his eyebrows rising. There were lot of familiar name in the list - Draco Malfoy for one - but not all the students had been listed for potions. There were only some for Defence Against the Dark Arts and, shockingly enough, Dark Arts themselves. "Dark Arts?" he asked slowly.

"Ministry is tentatively starting a line of _sanctioned_ Dark Arts," Potter explained but he didn't seem pleased. "The ones learning them with ministry's permission are obligated to take unbreakable vows about them and they are only studying them to develop ways of combating against them. There are loads of dark spells there are no defence for, the ministry is trying to rectify that…"

"You don't seem happy about it, Potter," Severus pointed out.

"I'm not. Having Dark Arts sanctioned is like saying that it's alright to learn them," the youth shook his head. "But I can see the point. There are so many practitioners of dark arts around these days that putting some limits isn't a bad idea…"

Severus nodded and eyed the list again before placing it down to his tea table. "What else?" he asked.

"Well, information about the ministry's potions making, the laboratories and such should you decide to use them. If not, here's the information for how and where to deliver completed potions. What next… hmm… ministry policies and such, rules, blaa blaa blaa, boring but I gotta make sure you're aware of them. You need to sign this and this," Potter said, placing scrolls of parchments down to the table. "And finally there is this." He finished by taking a small crystal phial from the bag.

"Slughorn's?" Severus asked to be sure. Potter nodded. "What do you need to ask for the inquiry?"

"Your former and current alliances, whether you've ever taken and if you would be likely to take bribes, whether you've ever killed, harmed or otherwise abused other human beings and if so for what reason," Potter trailed away, pulling out a final piece of parchment. "Then I need to ask some questions about your potions making. They're all in this," he then said, handing the parchment to him.

Severus read through it and scowled. The questions were thorough and he would answer them all in wrong ways no doubt. "You know I will answer most of these incriminatingly," he said.

"Well, people know your past and history, and will overlook some of it. As long as you're not planning to be come next dark lord, staring a spree of murders or thinking of assassinating someone, I think you'll do alright," Potter snorted. "Besides, you're only going to be a potions maker for the ministry, not a politician."

"Thank Merlin for that," Severus agreed and let the parchment fall to the coffee table. He couldn't help but feel a little bit nervous even though he, to his slight horror, did trust Potter to do the right thing and not abuse the truth potion. "Let's get this over with," he snarled.

"Alright. Here," Potter said, handing the Veritaserum to him. "You should know the dosage,"

With a scowl, Severus pulled the stopper off, tilted his head back and let three drops fall to his tongue. Immediately he could feel the lethargic indifference fall over him like blanket. In the back of his mind he knew that the Veritaserum took away inhabitations and made the drinker simply not care about lying. Of course it worked other ways too, but that was the most visible effect.

"Alright. Is your name Severus Snape?" Potter begun the long inquiry, taking out a muggle pen and getting ready to jot the answers down.

"Yes," Severus answered monotonously and so the inquiry began. It lasted almost for half an hour as Potter went through all the questions of the list. Severus knew he answered them all truthfully but de wished he hadn't. They were answers which were likely to get him thrown into jail. Potter too seemed slightly worried at his answers of "have you taken human lives and if so, how many, do you recall the names and why did you take their lives?" and similar questions.

After they were done, Potter waited until the hour was over and the truth serums effect begun to wear off. "I think I can get this passed, but yeah, you will never be let into position of power again, I think," Potter muttered. "Also, if your talents weren't so needed, I wouldn't let you take any apprentices. I think it's likely that Kinsley will demand a unbreakable vow from you if you do take apprentices, though."

"Understandable," Severus muttered while summoning a glass from the kitchen and filling it with water. Veritaserum was a tasteless potion, but it had still left a bitter taste to his mouth. "The only one from that list I'd be likely approve is Draco Malfoy and I'm not certain if he'd be willing to apprentice under me."

"He would be. Back when he ended the apprenticeship with Slughorn he said that it would have gone better if it had been you instead," Potter smiled fleetingly. "He was happy when I told him you had agreed to take the job."

"Hmm…" Severus frowned and nodded before turning his attention to the parchments. "When I start the potions production," he then spoke, "I imagine the ministry will supply the ingredients?"

"Cauldrons and such too if you need them," Potter nodded. "You can write me a list of things you'll need and I'll take it straight to the ministry to taken to the supplier, or you an just send it to the ministry yourself. You need to add the reasons why you need the ingredients for to the list, though."

"Of course," the potions master nodded. He hadn't even expected them to just letting a order like that pass them without checking it. With a thoughtful frown, Severus reached for the parchments he needed to sign. One was about ministry rules and other was about the job itself. "When I'll sign these, are we done?"

Potter gave him apologetic smile. "I'm afraid not. I need to keep an eye on your. At east in the beginning. Twice a month for six months, Kinsley asked," he said. "Once a week if you take a student."

Severus sighed and annoyance. "I guess it was too much to hope for," he muttered and glared at the other when Potter only chuckled. "I see you're enjoying yourself, brat."

"Hm-hmm," the younger man nodded. "It's just six months though, so it's not the end of the world," he said, before leaning back in his seat. "So, are you going to take a student?"

"I'm thinking about it, but… not yet. In few months maybe," Severus muttered before taking the muggle pen Potter had been using for the inquiry answers and jotting his name down to the parchments. "Now can you leave?"

The other laughed and stood up with a stretch, the phial of Veritaserum vanishing into his bag. "I can. I presume you'll send you ingredient list to the ministry by yourself then?" Potter asked and pointed at one of the parchments when Severus nodded. "The department address should be in this one. I'll let them know to expect it."

"Fine. Now get out," Severus snarled but given the grin Potter gave him in answer, it lacked the old edge.

x

Two weeks later, Severus found Potter from his doorsteps again. The younger man smiled almost warmly at him as the potions master scowled and let him inside. "I heard you've already managed to brew several patches for St. Mungos," the Auror said while heading to the living room like he owned the place. "I suppose congratulations for successfully stepping into your profession are in order."

Severus frowned but didn't answer. The past two weeks had been… better. He had cleaned and refurbished his laboratory and then gotten into work. Each day he had spend over ten hours brewing the potions and found that it was much preferable to what he had been doing before. Which was whole lot of nothing.

"What does this check up thing consist?" he asked with vary voice as Potter made himself comfortable at the sitting room couch.

"Nothing really. Just coming here to see that you're not using human hearts in potions," Potter snorted. "Which I know you aren't and therefore don't have to check. I'm here basically just so that I can go back an tell the good people that you were a perfect gentleman, offered me some tea, explained what you had been working on and overall acted like model citizen."

Severus raised an eyebrow at that. "I see."

Potter shrugged and grinned. "It's just pretence, the whole lot. Making the public feel more secure and all," he said before leaning his head back. "So, what have you been doing in the past years, in here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You couldn't have just been sitting around doing nothing. You must've been doing something," Potter said, raising his eyebrows. "Inventing potions maybe?"

Severus snorted and sat down across Potter. He hadn't been able to do much potions work as he hadn't dared to buy the ingredients. "If you must know, I did theorise a bit. And… one could say I did invent some too. Spells, though. Not potions."

"Ooh," Potter leaned forward. "Like the ones in your potions text book? Wicked. That would be a spell book I'd be happy to buy."

Severus glared at him. "Yes, rather like in the text book. Though shouldn't you be at least slightly more concerned, considering the result you had on Draco Malfoy when you used my spell on him, hm? Of have you made a habit of cutting people open with spells you had no knowledge of?"

"I didn't know it did that and besides, he was about to cast the Cruciatus curse on me," Potter snorted. "You'd react rashly to that too."

The elder man frowned but said nothing for a moment. "How long are this check up of yours going to last?" he then asked irritably. "Don't you have work to do?"

"Day off," Potter said cheerfully.

Severus sighed in annoyance. It figured.

xx

This was written for my muse's birthday, but the inspiration tricked away, so I wrote her a PWP instead. This was going to be Slash, but obviously never got that far. My apologies for possible grammar errors.

Now what to post next... I'm running out of coherent unfinished stories. Unless you count the many Artemis Fowl crossovers I've tried to start. Maybe collection of ideas like the first chapter?


	16. Collection of random ideas

Warnings; random randomness.

**Collection of ideas and unfinished drabbles**

**Enforcer**

"Well, the Dursley family really has gone up in life," Minerva McGonagall mused while looking at the four-floor mansion the muggle family seemed to live now days. The last time she had heard, they had been living in impeccably normal muggle house in impeccably normal muggle street and enjoyed their life as not so impeccably normal muggles, which made this leap a bit of a stretch for her imagination to take. But she supposed that it was only fate that the worse sort of people got lucky in life.

Shaking her head, she reached for the impressive demon head door knocker. The sound seemed to echo inside, and for a while no answer came, before hurried steps echoed inside and the door was opened. At first Minerva thought it was a complete stranger who opened the door, a servant hired by the family - because of course, muggles did not have house elves and house this big would need servants.

Then she took in the woman's face, and only barely managed to keep herself from gaping. "Petunia Dursley?" she asked, looking her up and down. It definitely looked like her - if more aged than the last time she had seen her. But what was the woman doing wearing such an uniform if…

Ah, she realised, and it suddenly made more sense. Of course they couldn't have gone up in life. Not with their intelligence level. Mr. Dursley had probably lost his job and his good standing at some point and now they were probably working in the mansion as servants.

"Yes?" the woman snapped. "Be quick, now, I have lot of work to do and no time to stand about gaping. Do you have an appointment?"

"No, ah… I'm looking for Mr. Potter, actually," Minerva said and then frowned. Hopefully they wouldn't have pressed the boy into work as well, though considering what she had seen of these people, it wouldn't have been much of a stretch.

"Yes, yes, of course. But do you have an appointment?" Petunia Dursley demanded, her hands at her hips and looking at the Professor with highly unimpressed look about her. "Mr. Potter is very busy and he doesn't have the time to meet with every riffraff that comes along. How did you get through the security in any case? I've half a mind to call the cops on you!"

"What?" Minerva asked, surprised.

"No appointment, no meeting," the woman snapped, and then stared to pull the heavy front door shut.

"No, no, wait," Minerva said, reaching out to stop her from closing the door. The professor's mind still had not completely caught up with the situation, but she understood enough to stop the woman from slamming the door to her face. "It's about the boy's school," she said imploringly. "Can I come inside?"

"Mr. Potter doesn't _go_ to school," Petunia answered with a scowl and attempted to pull the door shut again.

"No, of course not, not yet. It's about _Hogwarts_," Minerva tried a gain, and was relieved to find the other woman pausing for a moment.

"Hogwarts?" Petunia asked, narrowing her eyes. "Wait here," she then snapped and before Minerva could try and stop her again, she slammed the door shut.

The Transfiguration professor stood by the porch for a while, completely bewildered by the turn of events.

_(I have no idea what this was about)_

x

**Turnabout**

The second war ended with a cost a little too great for those who survived. Everyone knew even whilst the war was still going that the war would be too costly for the Wizarding world in general, but for as long as Voldemort lived there had been nothing anyone could've done about it. But when Voldemort finally died, falling to his own rebounding curse once more, the survivors looked around and knew. The Wizarding world would not survive this.

Over half of the population of the British magical nation had died in Voldemort's prison - muggleborns and halfbloods, dead in Azkaban. Most muggleborns had been subjugated to the Dementor's Kiss on sight and halfbloods who had married muggleborns had been imprisoned. "Theft of magic" was the crime of Muggleborns. "Aiding in foulest crime of all" was the crime of their loved ones. And Voldemort showed no mercy.

Those left either fled the country or sacrificed themselves in over to get retribution. Overall, the suicide attacks against Voldemort's forces took out another ten percent of the British magical population. The battles between Voldemort and his enemies, the imprisonments of those who stood against Voldemort's ideals and the battles amongst the Dark Lord's own followers took another ten percent, this bringing the number down to thirty percent of what it had been before the far. Then the last battle at Hogwarts took out another ten percent.

In the end, what had been about six thousand magicians overall was shrunken down to thousand and eight hundred magicians, most of which were children and elderly. It was enough for the magical world to barely survive, but it was not enough to re-instate a proper government. Especially not when most of those who formerly had worked in the government were dead.

It was only matter of time before some other nations of magician would move in and tip the balance, conquer weakened British magical world for their own. It was only matter of time before Britain's magic would fall. So most of those who survived… willingly left the country and joined other magical nations, seeing no hope for Britain no more.

Within five years after the war ended, only handful of wizards remained in Britain. Hogwarts was nothing more than a burial ground and the former Ministry of Magic was empty, gathering dust. Diagon Alley was no longer functioning at all, and Gringotts had finalized it's move - the main office would be moved to France and the London office would be permanently sealed. British magical world was officially no more - it faded away silently, willingly and without hope.

Or so it seemed.

_(Another time travel story, involving Harry and Hermione who accidentally do a body switch as they travel in time, with Harry ending permanently in Hermione's body and vice versa. I loved the idea like mad! Hermione!Harry cutting her hair short, playing mad game of Quidditch, kicking Malfoy's ass, and being over protective of Harry!Hermione who grew his hair long, is a bookworm, knows a lot, and feels very guilty for messing up the spell and sort of stealing the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing from her, er, his, best friend (along with vault full of gold and all) all the while the said best friend is having the time of his, er, her life being sort of anonymous and is feeling very guilty for shacking his... her best friend with the Dursleys. And all. And poor Ron caught between them trying to figure out what the hell is going on with fairly girly Harry Potter and what will no doubt come out as fairly dyke-like muggleborn girl._

_Thinking about it, this plot has nothing to do with the actual piece. But I didn't want to post what I wrote of Hermione's and Harry's pre-time-travel post-war interactions because Harry was being emo. So, um, ignore me!)_

x

**Frozen**

The house was cold, had been for as long as Harry could remember. Every morning it was hard to get out of underneath the heavy duvets and blankets of his bed and step into the cold room. Every morning it was a rushed task to get out of his pyjamas and pull on as many clothes as possible. Every morning, he went to breakfast with woollen socks in his feet and woollen sweater over him - and still shivering with the chill and missing the warmth of his bed.

He could remember the _other house_ of before, with the _other guardians_. It had been warmer there. There had been no chill, no need to pull on sweaters and extra socks. But it had been different there. His room had been smaller - had it even been a room? - and his freedom had been nonexistent. He had worked, done chores, cleaned the house, vacuumed the floors, done the laundry, tended to the breakfast… it had been different, but warm. Never this cold.

He preferred this, though, even though it seemed like his fingertips were always aching and like his neck was always victim of some stray breath of cool air. He liked it here, though there was no warm place in the house out his bed. Even when he curled to the fur-rug in front of the sitting room fireplace, he could feel the slightest chill of the room licking his neck.

The coldest thing in the house was his Guardian. The Guardian was a man with black hair, pale skin, frame so thin that he made Harry usually cook more food than they need. It never helped, and no matter how warm the food was, it never seemed to warm the man. The Guardian was cold in every way. His voice was cold, though not unfeeling or emotionless. His skin had seemed almost frozen every time Harry had touched it and afterwards Harry had to rub his hands together to bet feeling back to his fingertips. The guardian's eyes were green like Harry's, but the shade of it was frosty, making Harry think of green leafs which were enclosed in ice cubes.

Harry had once asked the Guardian why he was so icy. The man had answered that warmth was one of the things he has given up in order to be here. That it was his fault that the house was so freezing - no place where he lived could stay warm. That he was sorry for the fact that they lived in such cold part of the earth - he didn't want to needlessly bring his ice to any warmer part of the earth. That if they'd return to where it was warm, to England, he would probably bring the winter with them.

Sometimes Harry thought that his Guardian was the spirit of the winter. It was wrong and he knew it - the Guardian was flesh and blood - but it seemed fitting. But in the same time it seemed so sad. As cold as the man was, Harry knew he _felt_ even colder. He missed the warmth. Harry could see it in the frozen green eyes when the man looked at the fireplace or at Harry. The fire flickered and weakened every time the man was in the room, too weak to withstand the man's chill. It always seemed to make the man sad.

Harry would have hugged the man to share his own warmth with him, but he knew that he'd just be welcoming the man's coolness into him, so he never did it.

They live in the Antarctic. They aren't the only ones - there is a sort of town not far from their house is, but they never went there. It was, what the Guardian calls, a muggle town - a base. The people in the base do not know about them or their house and that is how the Guardian prefers it. They aren't supposed to be there.

"This is the only neutral region in the earth," the guardian explains to Harry one night as they look up to the flickering lights there. _Aurora australis_. "There are none of our kind here. No one to bother us."

Their kind. Magic users. Harry can't do much magic yet, but the guardian can. He has a rod of ice - there is a wand inside the rod according to the man - with which he can do many things. He can make things and change things. Sometimes for Harry's amusement he turns their tea cups into birds or rabbits and sometimes he creates illusions of animals Harry had never seen. Often he points the rod at Harry and warmth flushes through Harry's clothing, making him bear the coldest days easier.

The guardian teaches Harry how to do magic, but Harry can't do most of it yet. They'd need a wand for Harry, and Harry can't use the guardian's rod because it would freeze his fingers. Mostly the guardian teaches him other things. He teachers Harry about the stars, explaining that the night sky will look different when Harry returns to England. He tells Harry history of their kind, speaks of Herbology and magical plants and explains the care of all sorts of magical creatures. He explains theory of transfiguration and charms and says apologetically that he never really studied Arithmancy or runes so he doesn't know much about them.

Harry doesn't mind the gaps in the guardian's memory, and listens to everything avidly. The words spoken with cold voice sometimes sound warmer with memories as the guardian looks back to days before the chill. Harry likes to listen to those tales, but sometimes they end the guardian in melancholy. "It was warm then," the man murmurs under his breath and Harry hurriedly changes the subject.

They walk in the snow a lot. It's there always, as is the wind. They live up in the mountains, and the temperatures are always below. Usually Harry only stands the cold because of thick clothing, goggles and several warming spells provided by the guardian.

The guardian, on other hand, needs none of those things. He usually doesn't even bother to dress up when they head out, and walks in the wind with bare hands and neck. "To me it's no colder here than it was inside," the man shrugs when Harry asks about it. To Harry he word's seem morose. They could just as easily mean the house and be "to the guardian, it was no warmer inside than it was outside."

That is why Harry never whines about the cold, he rarely even mentions it these days. He knows that even when it's below minus sixty in Celsius, he's still probably warmer than the man. And though the winters are brutal, the summers are almost warm, he always has them to look forward to.

_(Again, no idea. Kinda like the atmosphere, though.)_

_x_

**Containment**

"Welcome to the storage," a lithe young man with black hair, round glasses and very fine suit said, bowing his head slightly. "How may I be of service?"

He had bowed his head to many people, both human and alien, corporeal and incorporeal, living and dead and even those outside their time - and many other forms of life, some human mind can't even begin to imagine. He had recited the lines to them all and though not all of them had understood it in the beginning, they soon did as he explained his purpose to them and why they had came to see him. Because even they did not know it themselves, they all had a reason.

"The storage is endless and limitless," he explained to his quest of the time while they walked pass endless rows of shelves and crates, through tunnels of thousands and millions of vaults, in halls of millions of lost paintings, of ballrooms of lost music. "It can store anything and everything within the limits of creation. Things that exist, and things that do not. Things that are and things that aren't. Physical and immaterial. It can hold precious creations and treasures, destroyed stars and limitless supernovas, nameless radiations and poisons… it can even store lost thoughts, emotions you wish not to forget and memories you would better do without."

Everyone has something they want to hide, get rid off or protect. The storage could hold them all. And all the people and beings that found their way to the storage had something like that. An idea they wished to keep to themselves, a treasure they cherished too much to trust any other vault, a thing they had stolen, a murder weapon they wished to hide…

The young man of the storage had endless tales of things he had stored away. A queen of a distant world had once hidden her only child in the storage to keep her away from assassins. A thief had used the storage as a hiding place for all the precious materials he had stolen - a heart of a dying galaxy, immeasurably valuable, had been one of them. A scientist had wished to cover for his cataclysmic mistake - the storage still contained the black hole he had created. A famed hero had once wished his secrets hidden from all and in thousand years of time it would be known that he had saved a planet by destroying eleven others.

And if asked what was the hardest thing to store within the limitless halls of storage, the young man would smile and say that it was Time, for he had contained entire strands of time, events and points in history, countless of generations and eons, so that no time traveller could it reach them or change them. But even if Time was hard to contain, contain it he did. For it was his job.

"Welcome to the storage, sir, ma'am," he greeted his guests with a bow, always bowing and always polite, as all guests were equal no matter where they came from, and what they wanted to store "How may I be of service?"

She was beautiful - a human, like him, with long red hair and incredibly bright green eyes. "I wish you to contain this boy's Death so that he will live," the woman said, lifting her chin, her eyes ablaze with emotion and passion, and desperation as she clutched her a wailing toddler closer. "It is possible here, isn't it?"

"Quite so, ma'am." The young man of storage simply took out his book and wrote the request down. "Containment of one Death. This way, ma'am." Containing mortality for him wasn't hard at all - it was certainly not the first time he had done it.

_(Cuts off kinda arrubtly, sorry about that. Again, no idea, can't even remember writing this one. Obviously, Lily saving Harry's life... somehow. Don't ask me.)_

_x  
_

**Strange, strange people (Doctor Who cross)  
**

The first time the Doctor met the Wizard was in year two thousand and two. It was a nondescript day in nondescript part of London and at that time it seemed like nothing was really happening. But of course that was all wrong, because there was _always_ something happening, whether it was being observed or not. Some fight was always going on, some battle was always being fought, some war being was always lost or won - or little bit of both. Even if no one saw it, something was always happening.

Earth, of course, knew very little of it. Save from few selected individuals, most of whom usually decided not to think about it too closely, Earth still dwelled in bubble of blissful ignorance. And yet, in it's sweet ignorance, Earth was one of the most commonly used battlefields in many conflicts. Why? Because Earth was easy. Easy, weak, unprotected and it's people were masters in self-delusion and professionals in denial. They were likely to see invasion in it's early steps and decide it was a some odd parade. They saw aliens walking down the street and decided it was a some event - or maybe they were filming some movie. They saw a person being attacked and walked on because, after all, none of it was any of their business.

Sometimes the doctor seriously wondered why he bothered with Earth. Foolish ignorant apes the lot of them, ignorant and ungrateful. So very, very ungrateful. He had seen the places humans could go and the things they could do and even though he maintained, to this day, the belief that in general humans were _good_, fundamentally they were _good_, the bad things they did… well. Sometimes the things humans did made him wonder whether or not he should just trip the planet into the gravity well of it's own star and be done with it. Of course he _never_ would, but still… sometimes he wondered if it would've been the most merciful thing he could've done.

But he never did. Of course not. Instead he came around, every now and then, found whatever was wrong this time and tried to repair it. And there was lot things to repair. Alien invasion there, infestation here, apocalyptic build-up of mysterious energy which is threatening to destroy the entire planet there… Lookie lookie, your water supply is being fed with hallucinogens, let me fix that since you haven't seem to notice. And what is this? A popular singer is actually an alien using hypnotism to gather up his private army of humans? Let me handle that since you're too busy to notice.

Sometimes he seriously wished that humans could grow up a little so that he wouldn't need baby sit them anymore. But the sad thing was, he knew they would. One day they would be little smarter, little wiser and would start taking their steps in the stars. He would be still there, looming about, sticking his nose where-ever he liked, but by that time… Earth wouldn't _need_ him to baby sit it anymore.

And then what would he do?

It was while he was thinking of these things - and coincidentally trying to hunt down a crooked businessman who was using little alien device to con money off his customers, not a terrible thing to do or something the Doctor really needed to butt in, but since the device was also sapping the life-force from anyone near it and would explode once it had enough, he felt it was his duty to confiscate it - that he met the Wizard.

It wasn't much of a meeting to be honest. The Doctor was running, trying to keep up with the decaying energy pattern which he was using to track down the businessman's soon-to-explode device. In all honestly, he wouldn't have noticed the other man, too busy running and trying to save London from the impending explosion and all that, if the man hadn't spoken up.

"Need a lift there, Doctor?"

_(I had this idea Harry and the Doctor meeting each other sort of backwards in time, like the Doctor and River Sung do. Didn't come out the way i wanted it to)_

x

**Insubordinate**

It took the fun out of the whole concept of being rebellious, when you had no one to rebel to. Especially when in hindsight you realised that you had been more or less rebelling non-stop for years now, and had gotten so good at it that it could be considered the norm.

Harry sighed to himself, idly fingering his sore earlobes. He had thought that it would be different. Run away, do stupid things, pierce your ears and some other body parts - he hadn't gotten a tattoo yet, but once he figured a design he could actually live with, he would. That was what people did when they wanted to feel alive and independent, right? Especially teenage people. They ran away to show how well they could take care of themselves and how little they needed other people. They did irreparable damage on their bodies to show that only they had the right to say what happened to the said bodies. Stuff like that.

So, he had done it all. Ran away. Not just out of home, or even the city. He had ran out of the _continent_. Just to be sure that, really, this was him being independent of the people who usually took care of him. Then he had gotten piercing. Two each ear, still sore but he was determined to not take a healing potion. Then, because everyone had earrings, he had also gotten another sort of piercing in location that he would probably not reveal to many people. That too was sore, more so than the ears.

The problem was that the piercings didn't feel like he was displaying any independence or control over his body. His body had more scars than he probably could get piercings after all - and none of them he had made himself or by his own volition, so really… other people had more signatures on his skin than he did. And the whole running away thing, too, well… he had been welcomed to the country by several magical agents who had arranged hotel residence for him. after that his bank accounts had been transferred and really, his independence was pretty easy thing to manage.

It was disappointing and he doubted a tattoo would make him feel much better. As such, the piercings just made him feel stupid and achy.

_(This was actually supposed to be SG1 crossover. Slash too. Heh)_

xx

Okay, and that's it for this time. My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	17. Partnership, AF x HP crossover

Warning; There be some spoilers. Another Artemis Fowl crossover.

**Partnership**

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Artemis Fowl rather enjoyed public spaces. He was a solitary creature, of course, and valued his privacy above all other things, but there was something definitely interesting and enjoyable about going to public. It was a multilayered experience, and he found it quite fascinating to peel the layers back, one after another, to get to the bottom of the somewhat illogical enjoyment.

First and foremost, perhaps, was the chance to observe. There was so much to see. For example, in a crowded opera theatre he enjoyed seeking out each and every person he knew, and analysing their steps back - what was their ultimate motivation of attending to the show, whether they were art lovers, trying to pretend to be art lovers, or if it was something else. Not to mention about figuring out how much they had spent on that particular seat and how that reflected on their state of affairs. Analysing their clothes, their behaviour, their posture and the look about their face - sometimes their makeup, jewellery and haircut as well - could tell him thousand little facts.

Of course, most if not all of that knowledge tended to be useless - but knowledge was and would forever be power. And of course one never knew how useful it would be to know about the secret lives of this and that businessman and how he had taken his mistress to opera he probably wouldn't have bothered to pay for had it been his wife on the other seat.

Knowing was one thing, but practicing his information gathering skills was of course also highly important. Though not obsessive about his studies, Artemis never truly stopped learning and sometimes he even figured out a new trick - a new way to look at a person, a new angle - which made it worth it.

Another thing he enjoyed about being in public was the efficiency. This was another multilayered feeling, and slightly malicious one he had to admit. Because being out doors and seeing other people had the tendency of making Artemis feel extremely efficient. People talking as they hurried along the streets so proud of their new phones, a man sitting in the corner of the care, tapping away at a new laptop, a confident looking man so self satisfied about his car…

Inside his mind, unseen by all, Artemis squirmed with slight pleasure as he thought, his phone was infinitely more useful, it's features years and years ahead the current trends. The laptop the man was using had a chip inside it Artemis himself had designed that - it made the laptop slightly more powerful than table top from year ago. In few months, Artemis would publish a new modification to that chip, making the model man was using nearly obsolete. The car of the confident man already _was_ obsolete - the man simply didn't know about the engine designs that would hit the market in half a year, which would make most of the current low-carbon systems seem like they were from the stone ages. Artemis would never say it out loud, but he enjoyed this sense of superiority immensely. Not that anyone who knew anything about him couldn't have already told that, of course.

Another efficiency he enjoyed immensely was that of his bodyguard. Butler was the very spirit of efficiency every hour of every day, of course, but out doors it was more obvious than usually. The small glances, the change of posture, the careful way he arranged that Artemis would sit in that specific table, and not the other one by the window, the way he checked the food, the people, the furniture, anything and everything he saw and more. Artemis had no doubt that the man had gone through several security check ups earlier, done searches, and prepared for all eventualities.

Butler did not like public spaces, Artemis knew. They made him nervous and on the edge - and the restaurant they were sitting on was, like many other places Artemis had insisted they go, a bodyguard's nightmare. Too many open windows, too many unknowns, too many people going in and out with strange clothes and bags and why knew what items and weapons concealed - too many high buildings across the street with rooftops perfect for any good sniper to set nest on.

Artemis didn't feel too bad about forcing Butler into this stress inducing place, though. Nor did he feel worried. Just by his appearance Butler was protecting him - only the very skilled, or very the stupid, would even try to temp the tall giant of a man in dark suit. And usually Butler's reputation was enough to drive back even most of the skilled and the stupid - and the ignorant were warded off by the outwards appearance. It was very enjoyable confidence booster to see it, and feel it - and in public, Artemis certainly did.

Last and perhaps least, Artemis enjoyed the shock value of going out doors. He rarely acknowledged it because it was petty to say at least, and he had better things to think about - but he was still only fourteen and couldn't always suppress the nasty nature of his hormone thrilled mind.

He and Butler struck a strange and not a little intimidating figure together. Artemis, the pale black haired boy with his mismatched eyes and cool, calculating face, dressed in impeccable suit, looking for all the world to see like one very rich and very pampered. And Butler; the bald, hulking bodyguard among bodyguards, big and impressive and not just slightly intimidating.

People had the habit of leaving approximately two and half meters of free space around them at all times. It might've been because the way Butler glared at anyone who dared to come closer, but it was very satisfying to observe regardless.

"Your man is late, master Artemis," Butler noted from where he stood, little bit behind Artemis, shielding him from the nearest window while keeping the restaurant in view.

"Approximately by four and half minutes, yes, I know," Artemis answered, stirring his tea absently. He would've taken coffee, but he knew from research that the restaurant offered abysmal coffee. Not that the tea was any better. "He did inform me that there might be a delay and that he might be as much as twenty minutes late."

"Not very reliable. If he knew he would be late, he should've set appointment at time he knew he could precisely meet," the big man behind him said, half a breath away from grumbling.

"True, true," Artemis agreed, intending to bring the issue up with his business partner as soon as he arrived - or, very nearly. Starting out with admonishments might not be the best way to start their partnership - or end it, however it would turn out. "For now, however, let us be patient and wait. I have no other appointments for the day, and the music is pleasant enough."

Butler did not seem much comforted about the melody floating from the restaurant speakers, but he said nothing and instead aimed a gaze at a passing waiter. After a moment, however, he did say, "I don't care for this restaurant, Artemis. It is too open."

"Yes, quite," Artemis agreed, though he had other reasons to dislike the place. It was cheap, the coffee was abysmal, he didn't care for the tea, the music would've been infinitely better if there had been an actual band playing it… and he held no hopes for the level of the food. But his partner had arranged the meeting here, so here they would meet.

He had to wonder what that said about the man's state of affairs, however. Narrowing his eyes, he thought back to the association his grand father had with the family and hoped that they hadn't fallen from grace - because if his potential partner had arranged this meeting to plea for money and mercy, Artemis certainly had none to give. Not for people he didn't intimately know, in any case.

That thought led him to another, something which had bothered him since the meeting had been arranged. There was very little he really knew about the man he was meeting. Artemis knew something about the dealings his grandfather had had with the man's predecessor - at least he supposed it was the man's predecessor - but that was all. Mostly illegal transports, smuggling of some fairly strange substances from South America, mainly from the Amazon areas. Plants, animal parts, that sort of thing - once even entire shipload of wood, specifically Cuban Holly, before it went extinct.

Artemis fingered the handle of his teacup in thought. His grandfather had handled the harvesting and transporting, as it was, and had been paid very well to get the shiploads of these products to Britain. All Artemis had left of the transactions were few yellowed documents he had found in the attic at Fowl Manor, too old for anything but very good scanner and even better computer program to read, and some old stories from the people who had worked on the transport vessels. Most of those people were dead, of course - it had been over half a century - but what the few survivors had to tell had not been all that enlightening. All they remembered was the long voyages, baseless rumours about the strange cargo, and the bonus in pay they had gotten from Artemis' grandfather.

It was not very satisfying. Not to mention about the fact that Artemis had found nothing, absolutely nothing about the man he was meeting. Not where he was born, who were his parents, where he had done his schooling, nothing. Everything left a data trail, or a paper trail. With this man… there was nothing. Which meant that the man had some extremely good hackers at his employment, had changed his name, or something else.

Artemis wasn't that worried about it, as he had learned his lesson with Spiro and could deal with anything this meeting would dish out, but it was extremely unnerving - and intriguing. That was mostly why he had agreed with this meeting - not because he needed the business. Transports weren't his thing, truly, and he was reasonably wealthy at the moment and had no immediate need for more. But he was curious. Very, very curious. It wasn't every day one met a man that according to all data bases did not exist.

"Master Artemis," Butler said, bringing Artemis out of his musings and to the present. The young mastermind immediately saw why Butler had called for his attention, and his attention sharpened into all consuming observation, taking in every tiny detail.

A man had entered the restaurant and a waitress was pointing the man towards Artemis's table. Artemis had carefully avoided making any preconceived mental images, but this man was not quite what he had expected. He was young - perhaps not a man yet, after all - and shockingly casual. He wore jeans and what looked like handmade sweatshirt, and his sneakers looked like they had seen better days - and those days were half a decade pass. Not at all like what Artemis had expected. The messy black hair didn't help - it looked like a mane of tangles than a hair - nor did the casual slouch of shoulders.

"Good grief," Butler muttered, and Artemis was almost physically jolted by the two word sentence. He couldn't quite think of words that fitted Butler's mouth any _worse_ than the words _good grief_. Not to mention about the tone - surprised, even shocked. When ever had Butler sounded truly surprised?

Then Artemis saw it - him. There was another following the young, casual man. Dark skinned man with cleanly shaven head, almost as tall as Butler, almost as wide shouldered too. He reminded Butler in more than size and hair-style - the dark blue suit was quite the reflection of Butler's own black suit, and the way he moved, the way he glanced around…

They were like made from the same mould, Artemis thought somewhat inanely and glanced at his bodyguard. "Anyone you know, Butler?"

Butler shook his head. "Kingsley Shacklebolt," he said, glancing down. "You could say we went to school together."

Artemis blinked - only visual proof of his surprise - before turning suddenly much sharper eyes at the young man approaching his table. Someone with enough funds to hire a man from Madam Ko's Academy was definitely someone to watch for. "Anything I should know?"

"Not much I can say. I haven't seen or heard of him since he graduated," Butler said. "He went underground immediately. Most do of course, but he did it without any trails - as far as I know, he doesn't even have records at the academy."

"I see," Artemis murmured, more than intrigued now. Then he straightened his back a little, as the young slouching man came to the hearing range. When the man was four steps from the table, Artemis stood up. "Harry Black-Potter, I assume?" he asked with a polite tilt of his head.

"You assume right," the young man grinned, and took the younger heir's offered hand into a strong, surprisingly friendly grip. "And you must be Artemis Fowl the Second."

"Guilty as charged," Artemis agreed with a nod, keeping his eyes on the elder male. Black-Potter was younger than he had assumed. The hair and the round spectacles had shielded his face, which was hidden the wide green eyes and smooth face. The man couldn't be more than year or so older than Artemis was - physically. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Black-Potter said, and stepped back to pull a chair and sit down. Artemis lifted an eyebrow at that - Butler usually pulled his chair, but Shacklebolt had made no move to do anything of the sort, and apparently Black-Potter hadn't been expecting it. Interesting.

"I'm sorry for being late. The traffic was murder," the elder teen said while taking a menu and opening it. "Have you eaten already? I'm starving."

"No, I haven't been waiting that long," Artemis assured, sizing the other. For the heir of a family that had by all accounts favoured illegal exploits and smuggling, he was very casual. But then, it had been more than fifty years since the last non activity by the family… "Do you wish to order now and talk business afterwards?"

"If you wouldn't mind," Black-Potter nodded with a crooked grin. "At this moment the business is nowhere near as pressing as my stomach," he said, and glanced up and over his shoulder. "You want anything, Shack?"

"Not at this moment, Harry, thank you," the dark skinned bodyguard said in deep rumbling tones and offered his principle a smile.

"Alright, then," Black-Potter said and waved a waitress over. Artemis frowned slightly as the older teen gave his order in relaxed British tones. It was frankly rather rude - the other hadn't even asked if he was ready to order. Artemis was, of course, he had already deducted which dish was most likely the best in the menu judging by the restaurant's level and the reactions of the other customers, but he would've preferred the courtesy of being asked.

"I must admit, you're not quite what I expected," Artemis said as they waited for the food to arrive. "The dealings your family had with my grandfather indicated that the Black family was very nearly nobility. Both in wealth and poise." It was a cheap shot, he admitted to himself, but he was a bit miffed.

"Yes, well, that was a different Black family," Black-Potter said, leaning back and taking a sip of his water glass. "The original bloodline is gone or married off to other families - I inherited it and it's affairs through adoption," he waved a hand over himself, like displaying merchandise. "And I'm obviously no nobleman. And not striving to be one either."

"Hm," Artemis said in agreement. That explained the name and the other's attire, among other things. "That must've been an interesting adoption," he said. "For it to have no records what so ever."

Black-Potter smiled, but didn't answer the unspoken question. "I guess the Fowl family has some interesting history too. I was expecting to meet your father," he said instead. "Why is it that I'm meeting the Second, and not the First?"

"My father is currently out of country," Artemis answered easily. "On a business trip. In his absence I handle his business affairs in Ireland." It was true - at least partially. But even if his father had been around, Artemis still would've taken it upon himself to meet this young man. Artemis Fowl the First did not much care for illegal ventures these days, whilst Artemis Fowl the Second still gave them the benefit of doubt.

"I see," Black-Potter said, accepting the half lie with a nod. They sat in semi silence for a while, waiting for the food. Over their heads, however, a different type of conversation was going as Butler and Shacklebolt sized each other and the changes that had taken place over the years since their days at the Academy.

Shacklebolt was a little older than Butler, being good ten years his senior and having started at the academy somewhat late. He wore his years with stoic grace similar to that of Butler, but his expression was much mellower. Butler was still taller and bulkier than the dark skinned man, but he didn't let the upper hand of body size lull him into complacency. Even at academy Shacklebolt had been wily, and Butler didn't doubt that he had only grown more so over the years.

What did ease Butler's mind was the fact that still, even after all these years, Shacklebolt apparently choose not to carry firearms. There was no tell tale bulge anywhere. There were knifes, no doubt - he at least had a sheath of some sort at his left inner arm, but that was it. The weight of Butler's own firearms soothed him slightly and he knew that if it got to that, he could pull out and fire his gun faster than Shacklebolt could draw and throw his knife.

The food was delivered and for a moment the two principle's were busy spreading napkins to their laps and reaching for bread and silverware. Eventually, though, the silence got best of Artemis who paused his eating to consider the elder teen and finally ask, "I assume that you _do _have some business you wished to discuss?"

"Some," Potter said through a mouthful of fish, and swallowed, looking sheepish. "Sorry," he said, leaning back. "I have several… things I need to acquire, and I cannot do it through more conventional means," he admitted, fiddling with his fork. "And I have several tasks I need accomplished, but I lack the manpower and the means of hiring."

Artemis blinked, lowering his eating utensils and examining the elder teen with more thorough interest now. Things he wanted delivered to him but not legally, things he wanted done which he couldn't get done himself. Very interesting. "To me it sounds rather like you wish to avoid leaving a trail," he said slowly and thought back to the distinct lack of any paper work considering this man.

Black-Potter nodded, not bothering to sugar-coat it. "Yes," he said simply before taking a bite of butter coated bread

"And you assume that you can acquire these services through the Fowl family?" Artemis asked, raising a single thin eyebrow.

The elder teen smiled faintly. "Can't I?" he asked, lifting his water glass. "I'm no where near a smart or resourceful as you are, Artemis Fowl the Second, but I too have sources. The Fowl family has a history - you and your father especially seem to have some interesting dealings here and there. Not to mention about your famed love for gold."

Artemis considered being insulted for a moment, before merely nodding and conceding a point. It was fairly difficult to be insulted about a fact that was on display for all the world to see on their very family motto. "Did your investigation of my family shed any light of our most recent dealings?" he asked instead. "The Fowl family no longer trades in the shadows, Mr. Black-Potter. It is not out way, anymore." Not his father's, anyway.

Black-Potter accepted that with a simple nod. "Yes. But I figured it didn't hurt to ask," he said. "If you took the deal then I would've gained a useful partner, and if not then no harm done and at least I tried. And if I hadn't made the attempt then I would've always wondered - it doesn't take a genius to figure out that finding a better partner for the job would be difficult."

The younger teen narrowed his eyes at the flattery - and at the words _useful partner_. It sounded a little too much like _useful servant_ to his liking. "You haven't," he said after a moment.

"Haven't what?"

"Asked," Artemis said, lowering his utensils completely and folding his arms. "You have only made vague allusions to illegal tasks, and that is all. There have been no details - and no talk of payment."

Black-Potter hummed in agreement and finished his meal with satisfied smile. "The details are too numerous to go over - and I haven't really worked them out yet, so talking about them would be useless. I just need certain things transported from certain countries, and I need certain things mass manufactured," he said, leaning his elbows casually on the table and smiling. "And payment would happen in gold."

Artemis narrowed his eyes. Gold. He liked the sound of that. The rest, however, did not sound that good. "You believe I have a factory at my disposal, one that's ready to manufacture this mystery product for you?" he asked. The transporting, though not his speciality, would be easy via proxies, but manufacturing things was a whole different thing. especially if they were illegal things. "How much gold are we talking about?"

Potter regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, rubbing his lower hip with his index finger. Then he glanced at his dark skinned bodyguard. "What do you think?" he asked. "How much is there, about four, five?"

"Six, actually," Shacklebolt answered, taking out a piece of paper from inside of his suit jacket and unfolding it. "Plus two more in various enterprises. This without counting the wealth locked in estates and the profits you might or might not get from the store of the twins."

"Hm. I could spare some, then. Maybe even a half," Potter mused, pursing his lips. "Half would be suitable I think."

Artemis narrowed his eyes. "Half a million euros?" he asked, calculating in his head. Five hundred thousand euros would've been enough as _payment_, but not as funds "If you think that would be enough for various transports _and_ starting a factory, you are sadly mistaken."

"No, no, no," Black-Potter said. "Half a metric ton. Of gold."

The young master mind had to take a double take at that - not because of the words, but because he had suddenly the urge to check that he was actually seeing what he was. Yes, Black-Potter was still wearing hand-knitted jumper and faded jeans - and he probably still had threadbare sneakers in his feet. He still had no haircut to speak of and his glasses were ten-year-old style. He still looked frankly rather poor.

"Half a metric ton… of gold," Artemis repeated slowly.

"Purest you could possibly find," Black-Potter agreed.

Artemis was quiet for a moment, making new calculations in his head. Half a metric ton of gold, in current conversion rates would be… The boy genius swallowed. This, for transporting and manufacturing? "What is it exactly you want transported and manufactured?" he asked slowly. If it was guns, he wouldn't do it. Not even for half a metric ton of gold. And if it was drugs, well, Mr. Black-Potter would find what a mistake it had been, approaching Artemis on that sort of matters.

"I want certain plants and woods acquired and transported - some animal parts as well, depending on the availability," Potter answered calmly. "As for manufacturing, I want clothes, mostly. Some fabrics. Maybe hand and foot wear, and such."

The younger teen blinked slowly. "And why ever can't you do this legally?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

Potter smiled wryly. "Because of those trails you mentioned earlier. I would much rather go without them."

Artemis thought about it for a moment. Potter didn't seem the type for making fakes or copies, even if some people did make mint with those sorts of exploits. So what was it? Plants and animal parts again, just like his predecessor, but manufacturing clothes…? This meeting was growing more and more strange - and interesting.

"I suspect there is something special about these plants, animal parts and clothes?" Artemis more suggested than asked.

Potter shrugged. "There is a reason why I want them," he agreed. "As far as I am aware none of the things I want transported are illegal, rare or dangerous and the manufacturing of the clothes should be simple enough. The problem is the trails, which I don't care for."

Artemis hummed. He could manage it, he knew. It would be fairly simple in fact, hardly even a challenge. The transports would be childishly easy to handle, and he could set up the factory to any suitable third world country where people wouldn't ask too many questions so as long they got paid well enough - and if it got to that, he could easily fake papers and claim the factory legal if it came to that, unless they did make copies of course. And with funds like what he supposed he'd have, bribing people to look the other way would be no trouble at all. The paper or data trails would offer him no problems either - he would fake whatever he couldn't avoid and hack what he couldn't prevent.

But not knowing why the whole thing was worth half a metric ton of _gold_ was already bothering him.

"Why?" he asked finally, not bothering with circling and avoiding and going straight for the point. "Why do you want this all? What makes it worth that much gold?"

Black-Potter smiled, amused and flat. "For as long as you _don't_ know, you can be of use to me," he said. "The moment you _do_ know, I'll have to find someone else to hand my gold to."

Well, if that wasn't a challenge… Artemis smiled a slow, sharp smile. "Well then," he murmured. "Let's talk details, shall we?"

xx

So, Sirius just died at the hands of Voldemort's people while the Ministry of Magic did more or less nothing but try to hide it all, and Order could do nothing to stop it. Harry, angry and more than slightly disappointed with the people around him, finds himself as the successor of his godfather's wealth and family and decides that, hey, since there's a war about to start and everything, how about I do something about it? So, he decides that he's going to raise an army and actually try and win the damn war. Of course, every army needs equipment - can't have something like the Department of Mysteries happening again. The people who's fight on Harry's side should be well prepared - and well equipped. Now, having protective robes and armors such made by the two robe makers of Diagon Alley would take too long and cost too much, how about mass manufacturing all that to his specific needs and having pair of genius inventors, say, the Weasley Twins charm them later on? That way there would be spares, if nothing else.

While at it, why not have some potions ingredients and such delivered, too, because if there's fighting, people will need healing potions... And since the Ministry would stick it's nose into the whole thing if they knew - and thus let Voldemort know through various spies and such - why not keep this all secret? What better way to do things completely secret from both the Ministry of Magic and Voldemort than using what they have no way of understanding - the intricate and confusing depths of Muggle Underworld?

And while Harry does this, having Kingsley test his epic equipment, and the Weasley Twins run amock in factory like it was their personal playing groud, Artemis watches from the side and soon figures out how to rob the whole magical world blind.

Also, Kingsley in my head is the Elite among all Aurors, so it makes sense in my headcannon that after Hogwarts and before Auror Academy, he went and got himself into some awesome muggle school that teaches people to kick ass. Like Madame Ko's Personal Protection Academy.

Long explanation is long, but I really liked the idea of this one so there you have it. My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	18. Perfectly Abandoned, with a twinwholived

Warnings; Sorta stupid. Twin-who-lived story. In drabbles.

**Perfectly Abandoned**

1. Mail

Henry Porter is in middle of a new computer design - one that would take greater advantage of the new cooling fan he had developed and would have a better memory storage than the most advanced models currently on market - when his secretary comes in, carrying a parchment envelope.

2. Gift

Charlie Potter is gleefully unwrapping a early birthday present, given to him by his favourite godfather, while his mother tries to distract him by flashing the Hogwarts Acceptation letter in front of him.

3. Photo

Henry takes the letter, unworried and confident in the knowledge that it has been checked for any possible dangerous substances by his company's security and curious about the material and the design - he photographs the coat of arms in the wax seal before breaking it open.

4. Many

Charlie only glances through the letter before rushing to his father in enthusiastic eagerness, begging that they'd visit Diagon Alley at once - there was so much he wanted to buy for school!

5. Lavatory

Had Henry been a normal boy, he might've thrown the letter away, thinking it a joke and washed his hands of the matter - though, perhaps he is wrong about that and normal boy would've jumped up and down in glee and spent a wonderful afternoon fantasising about magic - but then he isn't that normal.

6. Alliance

"This will be so wicked," Charlie enthuses to his best friend, Ronald Weasley, when they meet in the Diagon Alley, their parents watching over them with amused smiles and following after them.

7. Warp

Henry has the letter scanned and tested and finds to his surprise that all the materials from the seal to the ink and even to the glue of the envelope are natural - and that all of them are saturated with a foreign energy that sends the scanning equipment to hour long session of glitches.

8. Two

"The phoenix gave another feather," Ollivander says ominously, while Charlie faces him with a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach, "Just one other."

9. Workstation

"Anyone familiar with the term _Hogwarts_, please report to Mr. Porter's Office immediately," the company screens flash in every hall and in the cafeteria - a hour later, a junior assistant in the marketing division is promoted to the CEO's personal assistant.

10. Glowing

"Please?" Charlie moans pitifully, looking up to his father with imploring eyes as he stands before the Nimbus Twothousand, "Pretty please with Bertie Bott's on top?"

11. Influence

Henry whirls a stainless steel ballpoint pen in his fingers, considering his situation he know understands a bit clearer thanks to his new assistant explanation - the invitation of joining a nation that seemed to have forsaken progress in favour of miracles.

12. Dialog

He tries not to overhear his parent's whispering, but it's hard - and when ever Harry's name is brought up, Charlie's ears strain by themselves to hear.

13. Hand

"You will of course accompany me to lend me your assistance and expertise," Henry says after declining Hogwarts offer for magical escort, and when his new assistant, Miss Brown, winces, he pretends not to see it.

14. Prospect

Charlie thinks back to what little he knows of his twin brother - whom he has not seen since he was a baby - and wonders if he'd see his brother at Hogwarts.

15. Boss

Henry thinks his assistant seems a little disappointed, when he fails to feel suitably impressed by Diagon Alley - but he has never been in the business of pleasing people, especially not those he paid to do his work for him.

16. Hiding

Charlie knows he's not supposed to know that much about his brother - his parents had certainly tried to keep him from knowing - but in secret he thinks he probably knows more than they ever did.

17. Beam

"Mr. Potter?" the goblin looks him up and down, thinking Henry is someone else - but when the boy explains that no, he must have a different person in mind, because he was Henry Porter from the _Ports and Portables'_ electronics' company, the goblin's look of displeasure turns completely around.

18. Custard

His mother makes a pie and his father brings home a case of Butterbeer - and Charlie thinks, as they tell him about how they had to give Harry up, that sad stories taste little too sweet.

19. Acquisition

"How impressive," Henry says in somewhat flat tones as the cherry and dragon heartstring wand produces silver sparks that make the air seem colder.

20. Pigeon

"Now, I don't want you feeling guilty - what happened with Harry was beyond your control, so keep your chin up," James says, patting Charlie's black hair, "And keep your Seeker spirits up."

21. Subroutine

Aside from the visit to the Gringotts and to the wand seller, Henry spends no more time in the Alley, as Miss Brown will get him everything he needs while he will concentrate onto more important things - like figuring out how take advantage of his new circumstances.

22. Excess

"… Mum saved me, of course, and Harry too, but something went wrong with the spell," Charlie explains to Ron in hushed tones, thinking about the night that had made him famous, and Harry… different.

23. Darkness

The magical world exist in some sort of extended dark ages and, at the same time, in era of odd enlightenment, Henry thinks after he is done with magical history and added a whole new wing to his personal library - magic, he thinks, is the key to unlocking both.

24. Crisis

Ten years ago, Lily Potter had tried to save one child with the help of another, only to fail and accidentally securing Charlie's life with the cost of Harry's mind and soul.

25. Ocean

Listening to a white-noise tape, Henry meditates and internalises the knowledge of magic he has accumulated and plans new business strategies, new plots, new schemes - the magical world is a new body of water for him and he needs to have a good net ready.

26. Loan

"So, it was… his life for yours?" Ron asks, thoughtful and a little worried, "you think he could ask his soul back, or something?"

27. Creep

Rumours curl in the back of Knockturn Alley of a new business, a very different business, and even those comfortable in the knowledge that old stays and new fades away - like it had been for hundreds of years now - feel a shiver crawling up their spines.

28. Revise

"No," Charlie says, sad, "Harry was left with a hospital for a reason - without a soul, he won't have any sentience, and hospital would know how to take care of him."

29. Brave

Miss Brown isn't a courageous person, or bold one, but she finds some confidence in the money that stands behind her as she meets with the dregs of magical society and begins the lengthy process assessment that would determine goals of _Ports and Portables' _magical branch.

30. Stop

"I suppose it's time to move on," Lily Potter whispers, eyes moist as she looks at picture of baby Charlie and Harry, and knows that despite all her hopes and dreams and painful fantasies, Harry would not be showing up in Hogwarts come September.

31. Fallacy

Henry would go to Hogwarts at least for one semester, as he could afford the time and keeping contact with his company would be easy enough through various magical methods, two way mirrors and such - but even Miss Brown wasn't under any illusions about why he would go.

32. Language

"Ah, hell," James Potter mutters beneath his breath, seeing that his wife had laid the twin's picture face down on the mantle, and doesn't quite know what to feel.

33. Beloved

Henry stands by the grave in silence for a long moment, wondering what the dead man would think of his plans, before turning and returning to the limousine - leaving behind Jack Porter, _Beloved father and keen follower of Progress and Productivity._

34. Embarrassment

"Mu-uum!" Charlie groans seemingly out of outrage, as his mother hugs him tight on the King's Cross platform number nine and three quarters - but inside he wonders if she's somehow trying to hug Harry too.

35. Galaxy

Good luck, Miss Brown thinks as she leaves her stoic faced employer to the magical platform, and wonders if she was wishing it to him… or to the world wholly unprepared to meet him.

xx

In dead of one Halloween night, Voldemort comes along and one of the Potter twins somehow banishes him, reflecting a spell back at him. However, the boy who did it then lays dying, and along comes Lily, a Charms Prodigy, who tries to save her child by having the other child lend some of his lifeforce-magic-mojo to him. The spell fails and while the newly minted Boy Who Lived lives, the other boy lays silent as grave, soulless and mindless. Unable to face what has been done, the Potter's eventually leave soulless Harry Potter in muggle hospital, making sure that he'd be well taken care off there, even going as far as donating and having a whole wing build and stuff.

Then, some years later, along comes Jack Porter, a genius muggle inventor, investor and businessman, who sees the by all appearances mindless child who can only follow simple verbal orders like "eat" and "sleep" and figures out that, well, he can understand people, so surely he does have a functional brain on him. The house is still there and the lights are on, all that's missing is the furniture, really. So, he adopts the boy and goes about teaching him how to be human. This works rather like programming a computer, and newly renamed Henry Porter's intellect comes out rather like Artificial Intelligence in human body, following the many orders and directions his father _installed _in him. And without any emotions, inhabitations, personal desires or interests - or a human soul - to hinder him, he follows the orders to the letter even after his father dies. Good thing for him, the main orders revolve around Jack Porter's life motto,_ Progress and Productivity_.

So, Henry Porter, with a mind of a super computer, finds out about Magical world, and joins it with that motto in mind - and with every intention of bringing wizards to the twenty first century. And maybe later, when everything was ready, he'd also see about bringing them out to the open where they might actually contribute to the progress of the general population.

Well, I suppose the story could've been something like that, if my attention hadn't strayed off again. Does it seem a bit pathetic to anyone else but me that I really honesty started writing this with every intention of writing a completely over-blown bash fic, with idiot-who-lived and completely ooc-abusive-neglecting-Potter-Parents and totally Win-Awesome-Uper-Strong Harry? I fail. And now I shall return to bed to continue being sick for the next couple of days. My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	19. Beyond the Veil, HP x SG cross

Warnings; Harry and Sirius get kiddified for no particularly well expained reason. Stargate crossover.

**Beyond the Veil  
**

Take from Harry Potter's notes:

_When I look back to it now that things have in a way calmed down… it really was the strangest sensation. When Sirius fell through the archway, it seemed like the world stopped for a moment and certain things just stopped existing - caution for one. All there was the certainty powered by my own fear. He had just fallen through. It was just a archway and Sirius had just fallen through - I only had to grab through and pull him back from behind the curtain… There was no fear for myself. Only for Sirius. It was pretty strange._

_ I can still remember. Someone tried to grab hold of me. I could feel the fingers almost taking hold of the back of my robes, but they slipped. Sometimes I still feel the fingers reaching out for me and I wonder who was it. Who tried to stop me, tried to keep me in that world? I suppose it doesn't really matter, as they didn't reach me in time, but it still makes me wonder…_

_ I rushed through the veil without any care. And I went from frightened determination into… it's hard to describe it. It's like the breath had been knocked out of my lungs, but it happened to my emotions. The determination and fear and everything else was just blown out of me, leaving me gaping like fish out of water. And there was no air to breath except I was desperately trying to breath with my mind, not with my body. Trying to get my mind working when it just couldn't… feel or think. It was really odd._

_ The place beyond the archway is impossible to describe as well. How do you describe something that just… _isn't_? It doesn't work. There was nothing there. No colours, no shapes, nothing. It wasn't even emptiness, because even emptiness is _something_ and it was _nothing.

_ I have the strangest feeling that I met someone there. A man, or maybe it was a woman. Or maybe it was neither. Maybe it was a colour or shape or some size or… who knows. It was there and it did meet me, that is all I care. I think we talked. Or maybe we thought or felt emotions, maybe we had a lengthy discussion by using nothing but body language. I can't remember really. What I do remember that he, she, it, what ever it was, was displeased. Or maybe pleased… but it was supposed to be displeased. I'm not sure. It wasn't completely satisfied and I wasn't what it had been expecting in either case._

_ I think Sirius might've been there too but I have the impression that he had gone ahead. He had few seconds head start on me, so he was way ahead. He had already had his discussion with the… whatever that I faced. Strangely even though I think I could feel and think again, I didn't worry about it at the moment. Talking with the… the being was more important._

_ I wish I could remember what the discussion was about. Even few words or thoughts or emotions or anything would be enough. But I can't remember anything of it. It was lengthy as year and quick as second and though it seemed to go on for ever it was over before I knew it. I think I was satisfied with the talk, but I'm not sure._

_ Well, the outcome I faced a moment later was tangible proof that it could've gone better, I think. But even though I sometimes despair about it and I'm pretty sure I lost something in that discussion, I've mostly been content not caring about it too much. Because though it could've gone better, it could've gone whole lot worse too. I'm just happy I'm alive to write this._

x

As awareness seemed to rush back at Harry, he stumbled and almost fell over, the sandy floor for a moment skipping towards him before he managed to gain his footing. It was good thing too, he would've probably landed onto the person who was laying sprawled before him. "Sirius!" Harry gasped the first thing that came to his mind and then blinked with slight confusion. "Huh?"

"Ouch…" the figure on the floor moaned and moved as if trying to sit up and stumbling because of the too lose robe hanging about him.

Harry blinked again, taking in the long black hair and the wand scattered just a bit ahead, quickly recognising it as Sirius's wand. After pushing his wand into his pocket, he quickly moved to help the other, figuring that it was Sirius and they had just fallen out the other side of the archway.

"Sirius, are you alright?" he asked, kneeling beside the other and almost stumbling over himself. His legs felt shorter than they were supposed to. And when he reached out to help the other, his hands did not only feel too short, but they looked too short as well.

"Harry?" The other asked and looked up. Harry froze with surprise in the same moment as the other. It wasn't Sirius. It was a _kid._ With long hair. And Sirius's robes. "Harry, is that you? Are you okay?"

"Uh, Sirius?" Harry asked. "I think I'm alright…" Only then he noticed how strange his voice sounded. Then, seeing his hands still holding onto the kid's shoulders, he pulled them back and looked at them. They were _tiny_. "W-what just happened?" he asked, tuning to look towards the archway. Or what was supposed to be the archway. "Where did the, um, the archway go?" he asked weakly.

The kid - who could be Sirius or not - turned to look at the direction he was looking at. There was no archway or tattered curtain there, only a solid sand-brown wall. "That, maybe?" the long haired kid motioned upon them, making Harry look up. There was something arching over them.

"What is that?" Harry asked. After moment of hesitation he stood up, intending to take few steps back to get the full picture. But the hem of his robes got in his way just before he found out that his shoes were way too big and that his pant-leg had tangled with something. With a yelp Harry fell over, his glasses clattering to the ground. "Damn it, what in bloody hell is going on here?"

"I don't think we're in the department of mysteries anymore," the kid, who probably was Sirius, said. "I fell through the archway," he murmured, turning to look at Harry who was struggling against his robes, trying to get up. "You followed me, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I tried to pull you back. That was what I was thinking about anyway," Harry said, pushing the hem of his robes aside before starting to struggle out of them. When he was finally free of them, he reached for his glasses and tried to put them on only to find that not only were they entirely too big for his face, but he actually saw better without them. It was like the prescription was off.

"Oh, come on…" he muttered, trying them on and off. Everything was definitely blurrier when he had them on. After a moment of thought pushed the useless glasses to his pocket. Then he turned around to look at Sirius who was looking up to the thin thing arching over them. "Was the archway some sort portal? Like Floo or something?"

"Hm. I think it did more than just transport us," the other said, kicking his too big boots off before opening the clasp of his robes. Quickly he rolled up his pant legs so that he wouldn't stumble on them and stood up. He then had to pick up his pants which fell to his ankles, but somehow he managed to do it without getting embarrassed at all. "You remember anything inside the archway?" he asked, quickly tightening his belt around his waist so that the pants wouldn't fall again.

Harry frowned, quickly mimicking Sirius's actions and toeing his sneakers off. He took his socks off, they were too big to stay on his miniature feet without help. "Whole lot of nothing. I think there was someone in there though," he said, frowning at the lack of belt in his faded pants before resigning to holding them up manually.

"I remember that too. I think I talked with that someone," Sirius said while walking backwards, his eyes still on the arching thing. "It's a ring," he said with surprise while Harry stumbled to follow him. "A very big metal ring."

Harry eyed the ring with wonder, taking in it's size. There was some sort of symbols running along the ring and seven weird triangles separated by even distances. "Maybe it's archway too? We want in the archway at the Ministry and came out on this one. Like Floo."

Sirius was quiet for a moment, almost comical look of pondering in his face. "Those glyphs don't look like any runes I've seen. I don't think wizard's made this thing," he said, picking his wand and walking closer to the left side of the ring to examine the glyphs closer. Beside the ring, Sirius looked really small. "It doesn't feel like magic either," he said, running his hand over the metal. "It does have energy in it, though."

"You can tell?" Harry asked with wonder.

"I am a ward maker. I haven't really gotten any practice in the last decade and half, but I think I still remember some off it," the other boy said. "What ever this thing is, it's not exactly magical but it is powerful."

"You're a ward maker?" Harry asked with shock.

Sirius turned to look at him with surprise. "Well, I was before the whole Azkaban thing. You didn't know?"

"No," the other shook his head. "I didn't know you even had a job. Did dad and mom work too?"

"Yeah, your dad was an Auror and your mom was working on her Advanced Charms Mastery just before the first war began…" the other boy frowned before shaking his head. "It doesn't matter right now, we'll talk about it later. Now we need to figure out where we are, how we got here and how we get back."

Harry was quiet while Sirius examined the ring. Then he looked around. It really wasn't the Ministry. There had been a amphitheatre there before, but this room was angular softly lit by sunlight. He got the feeling that they weren't underground anymore. The air was warmer than before too, whole lot warmer.

Then Harry noticed the thing standing not too far away from them. Cautiously walking towards it, he soon found that he was too short to see it. It was some sort of sturdy stand or something like that. He could make some of the glyphs in it and that there was a red orb in it, but that was about it. "Sirius, come and take look at this," he said, trying to stand on his toes so that he could see better.

The boy, previously a man, walked up to him, his too big socks slipping down his small feet as he walked. "Stupid things," Sirius muttered while toeing the socks off clumsily. "What is it?" he then asked, looking at what Harry looked.

"I don't know. Some sort of pedestal maybe?" Harry asked, reaching his hand out and carefully touching one of the glyphs in the pedestal. They felt like they were covered with glass. Then he turned to look at Sirius, who being no taller than he was, was also standing on his toes. "What do you think?"

"They're the same glyphs as in the ring," the other boy said, he too carefully touching one of them. Then, after moment of thought, he pressed down. The glyph lit up and suddenly the ring rolled to life. As Harry and Sirius looked up in shock, they saw that a ring inside the ring had started to spin. Suddenly it stopped and one of the seven triangles glowed.

"You did that," Harry said, looking back and forth between the pedestal and the ring.

"Yeah, I think so," Sirius nodded, he too looking back and forth. "Yeah, they are same symbols. And symbol just under the triangle thing is the same one I pressed…" he pressed another symbol and the inner ring started to spin again. It stopped to the symbol Sirius had pressed and another triangle glowed.

"You know what this looks like?" Harry asked, motioning towards the ring. "Like one of those really old telephones with the wheel thing you need to spin to get the number right," he made a spinning motion with his finger.

Sirius blinked before frowning. "I think I've seen one of those. Yeah, Lily's family used to have one of those things…" he mused thoughtfully. "I don't this thing is a fellytone though."

"Telephone," Harry corrected, reaching up again and pressing more glyphs. "Let see what happens if we lock all the triangles."

Tensely they watched how the wheel spun, and how all seven triangles locked. They all glowed for a moment before going dark again. "Huh. Wrong number I think," Harry said, gaining a blank look from the other boy. "Well, with telephones you need to have certain number or it doesn't work. Maybe this needs a certain set of symbols."

"And if we get the symbols right we might go back through the archway in the Department of Mysteries?" Sirius asked dubiously and for a moment they frowned at each other. "You don't think it works like that either, do you?" the long haired boy then asked.

"No," Harry shook his head. "I… kind of have this feeling that we _can't_ go back through the archway. I think the person inside said so." He frowned. To him it felt like they had to find another way and that the ring wasn't the way - not a way to the Ministry anyway. It was a strange feeling.

"You too, huh?" Sirius sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Well… okay," he muttered and looked around. "We'll get to that later. How about we look around to see where we are?" he asked, taking out the wand he had pushed into the pocket of his too loose pants. "Be on your guard though."

"Right," Harry nodded, he too taking out his wand - which seemed entirely to long and big in his shrunken hand. Then he had to tug his loose pants up. "Um, you wouldn't have spell to make our clothing fit?" he asked awkwardly.

"Sorry, I've never been too good at house hold charms," Sirius grimaced.

"Well, can you make me a rope or something?"

After a somewhat relieving revelation that they could still do magic just as they could before, Sirius quickly conjured a rope which Harry tied it around his waist to keep his pants from falling. Then he followed Sirius towards what looked like doorway to a corridor, holding his wand ready. They must've made a hilarious sight, but right then Harry couldn't really care.

"I think we're in a temple or tomb or something," Sirius spoke as they walked through a big, stony and rather sandy corridor.

Harry looked around. The pillars and walls were from here and there decorated by some symbols, but they didn't look familiar. "Do you know what that is?" he asked, motioning at the blocky symbols in pillar they were walking pass.

"I have never seen them before," Sirius frowned, glancing at him. "Though I've never been expert in these things. I was pretty good with ancient runes, but… they're nothing like these."

"Ah, okay," Harry mumbled, a bit overwhelmed by the idea of Sirius studying - and being good at - ancient runes. The whole ward maker idea was a bit too much to take - he honestly hadn't ever considered Sirius having a job. _'Stupid of me though, they did say that Sirius and dad were pretty good at school work, mom too,'_ he thought with little bit of guilt as he thought back to his rather average scores. _'Unlike me.'_

"I think we can get out from there," Sirius motioned towards a doorway that was basking in sunlight. Cautiously they approached it, staying near the walls I case there was someone outside… but there was nothing. Only what seemed like dried plains as far as they could see. "Oh… kay…"

"I don't think we're in Britain anymore," Harry whispered, staring at the deserted plains with shock and then stumbling after the other boy as Sirius boldly stepped forward. After taking few dozen steps, Sirius turned around. Harry did the same and together they looked at the building they had came from. "Wow, it's really tall."

Sirius nodded numbly while looking at the stone building. It could be that their new diminished height made it seem like that, but it seemed like the building reached the sky. "It's a tower," he murmured. "At least four times taller than the highest tower in Hogwarts."

"You know…" Harry frowned, turning to look at him. "Why don't we know about this place?"

"Huh?"

"Well it looks pretty old. Like pyramids and the Greek sights and stuff like that. Why don't we know about his place? Even if it's unplottable, wizards should know about this place, right?"

"It could be under Fidelius or some sort of secrecy ward and no one knows about -" Sirius trailed away ad blinked sharply. Then he pointed at the tower. "Is _that_ what I think it is?"

"It's a tower, yes?"

"No, no, no, that thing behind it!"

Harry looked up and at first he didn't register what Sirius was pointing at. Then his eyes widened. A huge shadow of what could only be sickle of a moon could be seen just behind the tower. "That's twenty times bigger than moon should be," Harry spoke without thinking and looked down to Sirius. "Moons don't get closer, right?"

"No they don't and that thing is bit greyer than the moon is supposed to be. And it looks different," the long haired boy answered, making a haphazard motion towards the moon and it's big foreign looking craters. Then turned to look at him. "Harry, I have a bad feeling about this."

The other boy nodded and looked up to the moon again. "Me too," he said with a frown. "We, uh… we should search the tower," he said quietly after a moment. "There might be someone here and even if there isn't… maybe we'll find some answers and will figure out where we are."

"Good idea," Sirius nodded sharply. "Let's… let's do that."

With that said, they headed back inside to explore the tower. The lower level turned out to be a rather empty place, filled with halls and corridors with lots of pillars and weird writing. The stone floor was covered with layer of dust and dead grass the wind had probably blown in, but that was about it. It didn't look like anyone had been there for a long time. They found four different door ways, one of them probably the main door as it was absolutely huge, big enough for someone haul the entire Dursley house in without damaging either the house or the doorway.

"I found stairs!" Sirius then called. Hesitating only for a moment, they climbed up the huge stone stairs and came to the second floor. This one was cleaner and a bit different than the first floor. For one, the ceiling wasn't as high though there still were pillars. In the second floor there were some furniture: strange looking chairs and some sort of tables made of black stone. There were also pots for plants, but the plants had died long time ago without anyone watering them.

"What do you think these are for?" Harry asked, stepping towards one of the strange stone tables. They too were so tall that he couldn't see on top of them - but thankfully there was a weird chair near by. Quickly and bit clumsily Harry climbed to it. "They're not like the pedestal for the ring." He said, eying the consoles. They looked like desks square of stone on them. They seemed all to be different height, and they all were covered in writing.

"And there was only ring downstairs. Maybe these have a different purpose," Sirius huffed while climbing to the chair beside the one on which Harry was kneeling. "Do you think it's safe to touch it?"

Harry looked at him worriedly and then a the console. Then he took a deep breath. "One way to find out," he said and reached out. Immediately the table hummed to life, but that wasn't all. What had seemed like useless window before blinked to life as well, bluish colours and texts flashing over it's surface. For a moment they stared at the window-thing with shock. "Maybe it's a screen. Like computer screen," he then said, turning to face the other..

"Like a _what_?" Sirius asked, looking at him confusedly.

"Like, uh… like a telly but you can decide what you see in it," Harry tried to explain but it seemed to help much. "This is like a key board or some sort of console," he continued motioning at the table, and then at the bluish glass which still flickered with text. "And that is the screen. Yeah, it's like a computer."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. It's some sort of muggle thing, right?"

"Yeah, Dudley had one of them. He broke it," Harry said, reaching out and pushing at one cube. It moved about hair's width downwards and something in the screen changed. "See, what I do with this thing shows up on the screen."

"But… you can't tell what that means, right?" Sirius asked, motioning at the screen. "So you could be doing anything."

The other stopped and then pulled his hand back. "Yeah, maybe it's safer not to do anything," he agreed. "Maybe we should continue looking around."

"Yeah," the long haired boy nodded, throwing a worried look towards the bluish screen before starting to climb down from the chair. While doing so he stumbled and ended up falling to his behind. "Okay, this being little thing is getting really annoying," he growled while rubbing his behind. "I'd really like to know whose great idea this was?"

"Maybe the being in the archway did it?" Harry asked while carefully climbing down.

"I'd really like to know why," Sirius growled. "If we ever see that thing again, I'm going to give it a piece of my mind."

Harry grinned and then followed the other as Sirius angrily stomped away from the consoles. He wouldn't say it out loud but shrunken Sirius wearing way too big clothing and stomping with bare feet on top of that was a hilarious sight. "How old do you think we are, anyway?" he asked.

"_I_am thirty-seven and the last time I checked, _you_ were fifteen," Sirius answered a bit moodily.

"Well, you like four year old to me," Harry answered with a little grin. The other was a odd sight in comparison to the way he had been before, but he was getting somewhat used to it.

"So do you but that doesn't make it real," Sirius grimaced. "I never liked being a kid, no way I'm going through it again. We're getting this undone and a soon as possible."

Harry chuckled, though he couldn't help but ponder about that. Sirius had lost twelve years to Azkaban… this was in a way like getting that back. And then some. Shaking his head he shook the thought away and quickly followed his shrunken godfather. "What if it can't be reversed."

"It has to be."

"But what if it can't?" Harry pushed. "What if we have to stay like this?"

"Harry," Sirius threw impatient look at him. "You're starting to sound like the five year old you look like. We are _not_ going to stay like this. We _can't_. You _can't_. Voldemort's been trying to kill you ever since you've been a baby, you don't think it will be a bit difficult for you to defend against him in that sort of body?"

Harry frowned. Sirius was right about that. Even if he could use magic, body this small and this clumsy wouldn't be much use if he would have to run or duck or something like that - and in a duel sitting completely still was never a good idea. "Yeah, you're right," he mumbled, squeezing the handle of his wand. "You didn't have to snap at me though. I was only asking."

The other glanced at him before sighing and reaching his small hand to ruffle Harry's short hair. "Sorry, kiddo. I'm just worried."

"It's okay," Harry mumbled.

"Come on. Let's see if we can find a way to get to the floor over this one."

But even though they everywhere, looked but couldn't find any stairs leading from the second floor to the upper floors. "I think this floor is smaller than the first floor," Harry said as they returned to the staircase leading down. "And I don't just mean that the ceiling's higher, but there are more space. It's more… roomy in the first floor."

"You think there are hidden parts here, hidden rooms and such?" Sirius asked thoughtfully

"Hmhm. Any of these walls could actually be door we just don't know how to open," Harry shrugged, trying to take his glasses off only to remember that he didn't have them. Shaking his head awkwardly, he rubbed his dry eyes and tried to stifle a yawn. "I'm kind of beat," he admitted embarrassedly when the other gave him a curious look.

At first Sirius looked like he was going to tell Harry to toughen up, but then expression softened. "It was pretty late back at home when we got here," he said with a thoughtful nod. "I guess we could take a break. Wait here, I'll fetch our robes from the first floor and then you can take a nap on those couch-thingies near the balcony."

Harry thought back to the balcony they had found and nodded. He sat to the upper stair while Sirius headed to the first floor. _'Could be that this body gets tired easily too,'_ he mused, looking at his small hands. He tried to stifle another yawn and failed again. _'Kids take naps all the time after all.'_

Soon the other boy came back, his arms full of their robes. "Come on," he said and quickly Harry followed him, swaying a little bit. Soon they came to the couch thingies, where Sirius folded Harry's cloak into a pillow before motioning Harry to lie down. It seemed to be crashing down with the waves of sleepiness.

"Heh, it's been over fourteen years since the last time I got to tug you in," Sirius chuckled while settling his own robe over Harry. "Makes me feel a bit nostalgic."

"I don't need to be tugged in," Harry frowned. The fifteen year old in him was screaming against the very notion of it - and who was Sirius to tug him in anyway when he looked just as young as Harry did? But his body begged to differ - it seemed to like being tugged in. "Aren't you tired at all?"

"Maybe, but I guess I'm used to it," Sirius shrugged, taking seat beside Harry. Even though Harry was laying down, they still didn't cover the entire length of the semi-soft seat. "Living near Dementors for so long teaches anyone to handle bit of fatigue."

"You're saying I'm weak?" Harry asked with a frown, unconsciously curling into a comfortable position.

"No, just less experienced, of which I am glad. And you should be too." the other boy said, his hand coming to Harry's messy hair and starting to gently untangle it. "Go to sleep Harry. When you wake up we'll continue exploring."

The feel of the small fingers running through his hair was surprisingly calming and soothing. "Mm… I'm glad too, hate dementors…" Harry answered with muffled voice and begun to drift away. Just before falling asleep, he wondered how weird it was to go from possibly the worst night of his teenage life into the best day of his childhood. _'No one has ever played with my hair before…'_

When he woke up sometime later, it was dark and Sirius was laying half across him, snoring softly against his chest. With a sleepy snort, Harry threw half of the robe-blanket around his shrunken godfather and fell asleep again.

x

In another world a dark morning arose. After a sleepless night, the sunlight certainly seemed like in it's all brightness it was the darkest thing Remus had ever seen as it bled through the somewhat stained window. He was tired to the every bone of his body but he hadn't been able to sleep a wink. The oppressive, heavy silence that had fallen not only over the Grimmauld Place but over all of magical world seemed to drain all energy from the world. And from him.

_'I almost reached him,'_ the werewolf thought not for the first time, staring at his hand with desperate expression. It was the thought that had haunted him the entire night, teasing and taunting him with what ifs and could've beens. _'I felt the back of his robes just at my finger tips… I almost reached him. And if I had… if I had…'_

But he hadn't, and Harry Potter had ran right through the archway in the Death Chamber, vanishing from sight within few excruciatingly slow and far too quick seconds. In flash of desperate bravado, Harry had ran right to his own death.

Remus could understand why. Sirius had stood for everything had had never had and all he had ever wanted - only thing he had ever wanted. A family. James wouldn't have made any other choice either - neither would've Lily. But Harry was so young, so very young…_'Too young for any of this bloody madness.'_

Tightly shutting his eyes against the bitter sting, Remus took a deep breath. Then his expression steeled as he remembered the scream of utter and complete triumph that had bursted out of Bellatrix Lestrange's lips at the sight of Harry vanishing into the archway. The sound had snapped him and even now he could remember clearly the horrible, wonderful elevation of… power he had felt. The wolf inside him had been unleashed for one blinding moment of passionate sorrow and rage and he had attacked the woman like he had never attacked anyone.

It had been brutal attack, a simple lunge… but it had taken her out of guard. The woman who had killed Sirius and thus killing Harry as well had died, falling over hard with the weight of Remus's attack and cracking her skull against the stone floor. The sound had been sickening as it had echoed in the silent chamber.

No one seemed to hold it against Remus. No one had judged him for it, not even poor Neville who had seen him do it. The most horrible thing about it was that Remus himself didn't regret it either. It wasn't full moon and he had lost the control of his monster - and he didn't regret it _one single bit_. He wanted to feel guilty, he wanted to feel disgusted, he wanted to feel like he had betrayed his own volition to never hurt anyone and… he didn't.

And he wasn't only one who had turned brutal, oh no. What Dumbledore had done was even more so. Remus had always known that the old man was more than he appeared to be - there had always been underlying… wickedness in the man, and not in a good way. A possibility of something darker than Remus was capable, affinity which Dumbledore had for as long as the werewolf had known the man tried to quell, tried to fight back. Just like Remus had always been fighting the wolf, Dumbledore had been fighting the darkness. And just like Remus had lost the fight at the sight of Harry's death, so had Dumbledore.

Dumbledore hadn't been seen since but his handiwork had been quite visible. _'The Smudge That Must Not Be Named,'_ the werewolf thought with a twisted mixture of grin and grimace. He had to wonder where Dumbledore had gone, though, and why. The last time anyone had seen the Headmaster of Hogwarts was when the old man had ordered them to take care of everything - there had been a strange look about him then. After that there hadn't been a sight or word of the man.

"Remus," soft voice spoke behind him, making him sharply look over his shoulder. Tonks, her short hair jet black and her eyes haunted grey, looked down to him with a sad smile. "The Prophet," she said, handing the newspaper to him. While taking it to his hand, Remus could've sworn that he heard someone sobbing. It sounded like Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Luna and Neville - which was ridiculous, they were at Hogwarts.

"Thanks," he grunted, immediately feeling a bit guilty for his rudeness but unable to take it back. With a sigh he forced a smile towards the young auror while unfolding the paper. "How are you holding up?" he asked, though the sight of her hair and eye colour was clear indication of her emotional state. She was walking talking homage to Harry and Sirius after all.

"Better than you I suppose," she murmured, sitting beside him. "Your brooding is making everyone run away from the sitting room. You've been up all night, right?"

"Hmh. Couldn't sleep," he admitted and then frowned at the headline. "Tragedy and Triumph at the Department of Mysteries," he read softly.

"Chief Bones got to screen through the article before it was published, I got to see it too," Tonks murmured with a sad smile. "It's… it's pretty truthful. Well, it doesn't exactly say why Harry had his friends were at the Ministry but other than that… and according to the report, Voldemort's death was caused by accidental, uncontrolled magic that might or might not have it's origin in Harry, but other than that…"

"The world will know that Harry died last night," Remus said somewhat flatly. He didn't know why but it somehow made him feel worse. After all the ignorance Harry had been surrounded with and how people hadn't accepted the truth, it would've been fitting if they had been kept in dark of this. And in the same time, this would come like punch to the gut for all of them. Not only had Harry been right about everything, but he had died fighting for all of them while _they_ had been against him.

_'I hope they'll feel guilty. I hope they'll choke on their guilt,'_ Remus thought viciously.

"They say that there was a prophesy," Tonks said carefully. "About Harry and Voldemort. It was smashed, but…"

Remus glanced at her and shook his head. "There was," he said. "I don't know what it is, but I know one was made before Harry was born. Dumbledore knows it, though."

"Do you think it came true?" the auror asked. "Do you think that what happened in the ministry made the prophesy come true?"

"I don't know. Why would that matter?" the werewolf asked with a frown.

"Well, I just… I've heard that true prophesies always come true," she answered. "And if this one didn't…" Tonks trailed away, raising her eyebrows and smiling weakly. She snorted sadly and turned away. "Stupid of me to hold onto that sort of hope, right?"

Remus took her in thoughtfully. "Who knows," he then said. "Either way, Harry should be where he wants to be," he said, smiling sadly at the confused look the young woman gave him and continuing, "with his family."

xx

Sirius and Harry fall through the Veil of Plotdevice, behind which they meet Ancient who de-ages them and kicks them out through a Stargate on another planet because... I can't remember exactly why, but there was a reason. It was while ago when I wrote this. Can't remember much about the plot, either, except that the tower is ancient training facility or school for, erm, Ancients, and that they were possibly meant to learn stuff there - and that fast forward some months/years after they've figured things out and learned how to use the Stargate, they meet SG1 on some random planet. Imagine if you will, two pint sized wizards armed to the teeth with Ancient technology, saving SG1 from random gang of hostiles.

My throat is defective. Anyone know where I could get a new one? Damn I hate being sick. My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	20. Freefall, HP x SGA cross

Warnings: Semi-sentient city, spoilers, doesn't follow canonical plots all that straight, drabble story. Stargate Atlantis crossover.

**Free fall**

1.

Harry refines his concepts of humanity and magic and what is and isn't possible pretty soon after he realises what the room he finds himself in is, and how exactly he had gotten there. That, though, takes time, because seeing something is far from understanding it, and understanding is not easy to achieve. Atlantis, though, helps him there, whispering at the edges of his consciousness, directing his feet through the halls that light up around him, even as the city shakes and trembles.

Elizabeth Weir, however, is the one who makes sense of the madness lapping at his awareness, making everything clear.

2.

Elizabeth is old when he finds her, having slept ten thousand years, and Harry is young, having stumbled where he wasn't supposed to be well ahead of his time. But Atlantis guides his feet and he guides her with his hand, to a chamber he doesn't know he knows how to find, but which Atlantis lights up and makes work. She sits still and waits as the city reads her and learns to understand her, and under the gentle touch of the healing mechanisms she slowly grows young again.

3.

Around them the city continues to shake, but Elizabeth tells him not to be afraid. "The city will rise," she says, still leaning to him because being young again - younger than she was, even - does not repair atrophied muscles or make her joints forget eons of stillness. "It's best to let it happen." And so Harry does nothing but try to understand, as Atlantis sings for the sun and air and quivers with excitement of being free again.

4.

They sit huddled like lost children they are, as the city makes for its lunge. Elizabeth tells him of confidentiality and missions and Stargate and how they were in another galaxy, while Harry tells her of magic and wizards and how he had gotten lost in the Antarctic, looking for a hidden piece of a murderer's slow. He doesn't understand her tale, and she doesn't understand his, but it doesn't matter because they both share the fright and loneliness and awe, as the spires of Atlantis breach the surface.

5.

Harry holds Elizabeth's hand tightly, as they slowly walk along the halls that now bathe in the light of an alien sun. She is steadier now, but not yet sturdy, as she tells him stories about the ancients and their magnificent civilisation, and time travel and how it had taken her out of time, of how she was actually from earth, and that it would be alright, if he didn't understand.

Harry says nothing, just thinks of the Horcrux he hadn't found - maybe the information had been wrong - and about whether he had stumbled onto Atlantis accidentally or not. Because regardless of how difficult she made finding Atlantis seem, he had only stumbled onto the frozen gate, rested his hand on it and the shimmer blue water had erupted to life.

6.

"You must've found the Antarctic gate," Elizabeth explains to him. "Ninety seven, you say? That would be just year or so before we found the gate in my timeline - it was discovered in ninety eight, actually. Had you been few months later, you might've never found it."

Harry doesn't really understand, but he's glad regardless - the hypothermia had been getting to him when the gate had activated, and had it not been there, he isn't sure if he had survived.

7.

Elizabeth dwells on his being there for a while longer, but Harry gets distracted as the city hums around him, just loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough not to distract him. He wonders at it for a while, about a technology that could feel and sound like it, about the fact that Elizabeth seems completely deaf to it, before another thought pierces through the confusion and discoveries. "How will I get home?"

Elizabeth stops at that, but doesn't say anything. It doesn't take more than that for Harry to realise that leaving wouldn't be as easy, as arrival had been.

8.

There were power issues, and security issues - because even if they did manage to get enough power to send him back, he would be sent into the Stargate Command, and it would be trickier for him to get back to his life from there. "It's a secret project," Elizabeth tries to explain, but Harry has already figured out. It's like muggle stumbling upon the Department of Mysteries - he wouldn't be allowed to walk out just like that either.

"And I don't know… if the timeline is still intact. It might be that what happened in my past will not happen here - you might be herald of that," Elizabeth says, though whether she is trying to convince him or reassure him or what, he doesn't know. "You do not exist in my time line as far as I know; your people do not exist. It might be that… the Stargate program was never really started."

They share histories and world views and tell each other what they know of what world is like - and there are similarities, but also some differences, and together they worry about the time and whether either of them can go back anymore.

9.

"First things first," Harry says finally, after hours have gone by, and human needs start to make themselves known. "Whatever has or hasn't happened, and whatever will happen aside, we need to survive _now_." He brings out what food he has with him, and makes rations - she watches, amazed, as he increases the size of his stores by ten fold. Then she takes him to see where they would get water and where they would be able to bathe, and finally shocks him with the Ancient matter converters - that, among hundreds of other things, can make food.

"Ancients had to eat too," she says, smiling as she tries the odd porridge she had made. "I think we need to refine what is and isn't edible for the machines though," she adds, grimacing and pushing the angular bowl away from herself.

10.

They sleep in the same room, as Atlantis is big and empty and a little intimidating, and after the first night it becomes a habit. As the days go by and Harry learns to accept Atlantis and his odd, free confinement in her endless halls, Elizabeth replicates fabrics for duvets, curtains and carpets, and makes shelves to fill with items. Soon she fills their combined room with meaningless things that give the illusion of it being normal - of it being home. And though the natural hues of white and beige and brown aren't among his favourites, Harry says nothing against it.

He knows the power and security simple illusions can give.

11.

"What will we do?" Harry asks. They have years ahead of them, and he doesn't know what to think of that - doesn't know how to handle that. He comes from war and action, and being in empty city with nothing to do makes him feel like a ghost.

Elizabeth considers the question, and comes up with many options for him to choose from. "We can do nothing, and wait. I can teach you Ancient language and we can learn to operate Atlantis - we can certainly survive here, well enough," she offers, and he decides against it immediately. "We could… explore the galaxy outside," she then says and motions at the silent Stargate. "There are many planets out there. We could find power sources for Atlantis - we will need them, we already do."

12.

But they can't, really. Not together, in any case. Neither dares to leave the city alone because it's all they have and in odd way they are all it has too. They are responsible of its care, because they are _there_, and there will be no one else for years - maybe ever. But Harry is anxious and he has to move, has to run, has to do something. So they decide. He will go.

Elizabeth tells him stories and drills him in procedures, making him as ready as she can for all possibilities. In the mean while she replicates him equipment and weapons, making bastardized mixture of earth military uniforms and vests and what the Ancients wore, and Harry covers it with a dark brown cloak that makes him feel a bit more like himself. Harry practices with the ancient energy weapon until his aim with it is almost as good as it is with his wand - while Elizabeth tinkers with the converter, and then produces him dozen spare wands, identical to the one he has down to its very molecules.

It's odd, it's foreign and yet it's oddly relieving, when he attaches the Ancient communication crystal to his collar, and steps out of Atlantis.

xx

This isn't actually an abandoned idea - I'm still writing, going at drabble number 53 at the moment. But after two weeks of absolute misery, suffering the mother of all flus, I'm finally, _finally _feeling better, and I wanna gloat.

I won't do the whole plot analysis with this one, because one day I will post the whole story in it's glory and I don't want to spoil it, but I will stay this. If I was Voldemort, with incredible magical abilities (among which is the ability to Apparate and possibly create Port-keys), and had stuff like Horcruxes... I sure as _hell _wouldn't leave them all in the same country. Probably not even the same continent. In this story, Voldemort did just that - and while looking for the Antarctica Horcrux, Harry got a little lost. Also, it never made _any _sense to me that Ancients, who are the original creators of both the sarcophagus technology and probably all the rest of the Goa'uld healing devices, wouldn't have awesome healing mechanisms in their own city. The material converter was totally ripped off from Merlin and from the episode Unending, but it made sense to me that the Ancients would have something like that. And Atlantis is totally sentient. Totally.

Now I shall go frolic somewhere, enjoying my renewed health. My apologies for ranting and possible grammar errors.


	21. Hidden in Magic, Crossover

Warning; Messy crossover beginning is messy

**Hidden in**** Magic**

Harry no longer knew what to think of anything. Things had gone so awfully wrong in such a little time that he felt out of sorts and just unattached to things. It was like he was having a dream or watching a movie - or maybe he was stuck in a pensieve displaying the memories of another world, some alternate reality. Because this… this _incident_ did not feel like the world, the time, the present he knew.

Incident. Could it really be called incident? No, incident was too small a word to describe this. Situation got closer. Catastrophe was even more accurate. But everything was so calm and sullen, so oddly quiet and organised, that calling this a catastrophe was like calling Hogwarts a mountain. No, this was like calm centre in the heart of the storm. Moment of peace. Eerie, unnatural peace, before the destruction would start again.

"This wasn't what I thought when we were fighting to end the war," Hermione muttered beside him, leaning onto the stone baluster of one of Hogwarts' many balconies. "This… wasn't how I thought peace would start…" Ron beside her grunted in dark agreement, his knuckles white as they tried their hardest to tear pieces of the stone. Harry merely swallowed.

No. This was not what any of them had considered. Peace? This wasn't peace. This was… something else, something cold and horrible, something he couldn't understand but was still forced to accept. He could tell he wasn't the only one feeling like that, nor were Hermione and Ron. The people they were looking, the dozens of wizards who were filling Hogwarts' yards and anxiously waiting to get into the castle, had the same mixed emotions on their faces. They too didn't know what to think. They wanted to, but they didn't have the time or the chance to think. All they could do was act.

"They're… bringing awful lot of stuff," Harry muttered. Many people were dragging with them suitcases and bags and all sorts of containers. Boxes, jars, jugs… filled with who knew what. "Why haven't they used undetectable expansion charms?"

"Some have. Others don't know them. I think most have used them but even expansion charms have their limit. Look there," Hermione pointed. "That Jack Guill. He's the head librarian in the Wizarding Branch of to British Library. That box he's dragging -"

"Don't you mean _crate_?" Ron muttered

"- is probably holding all the books from the Wizarding branch," Hermione finished without giving the interruption any attention. "And there, look. Ministry officials. They're probably bringing most of the stuff. You know, all the files in the Ministry, all the items… all the things from all the Departments. Department of Mysteries alone must've taken days to empty."

"You think they brought the veil?" Ron muttered under his breath, throwing an apologetic glance towards Harry.

"I don't think it can be removed," Hermione said with a frown. "It's probably been destroyed by now."

Harry frowned darkly and folded his hands. He didn't like this at all. The idea of the veil which had taken Sirius's life, destroyed? It was both disconcerting and relieving. It would take no one else's life and no one who knew nothing about it would ever be able to fiddle with it, but still… Sirius had died on it and because of that Harry sort of wished it would've been brought along.

Swallowing the emotion down and assuring himself that the veil had nothing to do with Sirius anymore, the young man glanced down to his hand. The Peverell Ring glinted at him before he snapped his eyes up. Had been forced to pick it up - it and he Elder Wand - because in this mess none of them wanted them to get loss or end up in wrong hands.

"It's best you have it than someone else," Hermione said not for the first time. "Same for the Elder Wand," he added, ignoring Ron's uncomfortable twitch.

"I know, I know," Harry mumbled. He didn't like it but it was true. And he certainly didn't want some unknowing fool stumbling over either of the two items - nor did he want to leave them behind. Shaking his head he relaxed his hands and glanced over his shoulder, hearing someone approaching them. "Headmistress," he greeted the woman.

"Harry," McGonagall greeted him with a strained smile nodding briefly to Hermione and Ron before turning to black haired young man. "They're doing the headcount right now, but it looks like everyone are here," she said, glancing over the balcony baluster and to the yard. She grimaced. "Not everything is going to fit inside, I'm afraid. All the classrooms, halls, corridors - even the common rooms - are filled to the brim."

"We were expecting that, weren't we?" Hermione asked with sad smile, looking down again. "Even with expansion charms over expansion charms, the castle isn't big enough for this."

"No it isn't," the woman answered.

"Has the essentials been checked, professor?" Harry asked, thinking back to the list Hermione had made along with all the major hitters of the second war.

"Yes an for now it seems we… are all set," McGonagall nodded, pulling out a parchment from her robes and opening it. "The castle can, at maximum, inhabit up to three four thousand heads - four thousand and seven hundred if people don't mind sleeping in the corridors. So far we have counted up to six hundred and fifty seven tents, most of which are family tents so that would be another four thousand or so. For now it seems we will have capability to accommodate everyone."

"That's good but more importantly… do we have capability to _feed_ everyone?" Ron asked worriedly baking Harry snort with amusement and Hermione sigh and roll her eyes towards the sky.

"For about a month, yes," McGonagall was obviously worried. "Beyond that… not so much. However we have listed seventy people capable of farming and approximate twenty who are skilled with Herbology so food production shouldn't be a problem."

"As long as the land is capable of it," Hermione muttered.

"Yes, as long as the soil is fertile," the elderly woman nodded with a sigh.

"How are things in the Dark Forest?" Harry asked, nodding towards the forest.

"As well as you can imagine. The handlers are doing their best to quell the creature population… some sacrifices has been made in order to situate all the creatures. The Acromantulas… were taking too much territory." the Headmistress sighed.

Harry grimaced. Hagrid probably hadn't liked that, but at this point they couldn't look into well being of individuals. And they did not need massive population of predators among other creatures in the forest. "What about the centaur?" he asked.

"They have departed. Everyone of them," McGonagall answered. "We do not know if they somehow… staged a mass suicide or if they have moved onto other regions of the world, but at this point we have no time to investigate."

"Harry," a new voice entered the discussion, making the four of them look up it was not a person, but a lynx Patronus, padding towards them through the balcony door and speaking in Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice. "Headcount has been confirmed. Everyone are here. You can start anytime you're ready," the lynx said before dissolving into silvery mist and vanishing.

"Anything else I should know before I start?" Harry asked, glancing at the headmistress.

"Well, Ollivander wanted to let you know that he has the materials for up to three hundred wands, his old stores that contain four hundred unclaimed wands and with the phoenix eggs and unicorn herd, it is most likely that wand production can continue unhindered," McGonagall said, handing him the parchment she had been holding. "Rest of the… statistics are on this."

Harry glanced over it. It listed approximate amount all the of materials, all the people, all the items and creatures they had. Most of the facts he had already known, other's McGonagall had listed, but one fact glared up at him. "Eight hundred minors," he muttered, somewhat sadly. Eight hundred minors, most of whom weren't even Hogwarts age yet.

Shaking his head, Harry handed the parchment back to the woman before taking his wand out. After moment of hesitation, he put the holly wand back into his pocket and took the Elder wand instead. Turning his back to the yard and leaning against the baluster, he hesitated for a moment before lifting the wand up and to his throat.

"Sonorus," he spoke softly feeling the spell envelop his throat. "This is Harry Potter speaking. Could I have your attention for a moment, please?" he asked, his voice echoing all around the grounds of Hogwarts. He could hear how the people in the yard stopped whatever they had been doing and suspected that people everyone in the castle had similarly halted to listen.

"I'm not good at speaking so just bear with me. I know… that this is not what we were looking forward to," Harry started without much of a plan what he was going to say but hoping that it would come out right nonetheless. "This is not why we fought for, this is not what we waited. Voldemort is dead and the war is over but out struggles seem to be far from over - they haven't even seemed to have started yet."

He was quiet for a moment as Hermione reached to squeeze his hand while Ron threw arm over his shoulders. Harry smiled at them and continued. "But don't get nervous or frightened, because even though this… this situation is unfamiliar and frankly pretty scary, we're all here as a big group," he spoke. "No one is here alone and because of that we can pull through this, we can survive this, we can go on. Just ask for help and give it when it's asked of you, and we'll be okay."

He coughed and glanced at McGonagall who was motioning at the list. "We have enough space to accommodate everyone. I won't lie to you, things are tight and it won't be comfortable, but we will all fit and everyone will have a bed to sleep in," he continued. "We have food for a month, little longer if we stretch it to limits and eat as little as possible. We have people among us who can grow food, we have Herbology specialist, we have also enough livestock to get us by. So, as far a living goes, we _can_. It won't be easy, but we won't starve to death."

McGonagall nodded with satisfaction and Harry continued. "We will be departing in one hour. By then make sure that all your family members are accounted for, that you are ready and that you brace yourselves. It will be a rough ride and though everything has been fortified, things might fail so brace yourselves for that," he continued. "Put up cushioning charms and protective barriers. If you can, use gravity charms on your belongings or ask someone to do it for you. We don't want them to be thrown around so make sure everything around you is secure."

He paused for a moment before figuring that it was time to finish his mockery of a speech. "There are close to seven thousand of us," he said softly. "Seven thousand witches and wizards, most of whom have graduated from this castle. With force like this with us, none of us can say that this is the end. This is not the end. This is the beginning. It's a rough one, yes, but only way to go from here is up. Just stay strong and we'll make it," he paused again before saying. "Thank you. Quietus."

The people in the yard gave him a quiet applause for a brief moment before going back to what they had been doing. Harry gave them a sad look before squeezing Hermione's hand, nodding at Ron and turning his eyes to McGonagall. "Everything is ready for the… the departure?"

"As far as spell work goes," the Headmistress nodded. "You'll take part in it?" she then asked, glancing down to the Elder Wand meaningfully. "It would… help."

"I… yeah. I'll take part in the casting," Harry said. They'd need the boost of energy he could give, and Hermione had already forced him to memorise the spell work, he mused and glanced at his two best friends. "What about you two? You're all set, know what to do…?" he asked with faint attempt of a smile.

"You bet," Ron nodded. "I should probably go see if I can find my family before mum starts to worry," he then said. "You know how she gets."

"I'll go with you," Hermione nodded at him and looked at Harry. For a moment she looked like she had something important to say before she sighed and smiled tiredly. "Harry… good luck," she said helplessly.

"Yeah. Good luck to all of us." Harry smiled sadly at the both of them before turning to McGonagall. "Let's go then."

xx

So, Voldemort is dead, but the troubles are far from over and done with - especially since Voldemort went and pissed off the muggle population by unleashing dementors on villages and towns and killing whole bunch of innocents. Once he is gone, the muggles give their ultimatum - they want wizards out of Britain and if it doesn't happen, bombs will start dropping on certain locations, say, down to Ministry of Magic, on Hogwarts, etc. Majority of British wizards, when they hear this, take off to other countries, but as whole, no country is quite willing to take them in, not after the whole Voldemort thing - and then there are the proud ones who just don't want to go to others, begging for asylum. Eventually, the rest of the wizards left in Britain are locked up with seemingly no way to go, except to wait to be hunted down by the muggles.

Then the eggheads of the British wizarding world come up with a way to transport a piece of land from Earth to another planet/dimension, where they can start over in peace. Hogwarts grounds are chosen because Earth wouldn't miss them, being unplottable as they are, and they handily enough have everything they need. So, everything is transported there for, well, transport.

They were meant to be taken to the Naruto world, where they would've eventually turned into a Hidden Village... of sorts. Hogwarts isn't enough space for seven thousand people, so they would've build houses around it until it would've bloomed into a village - and then that village would've drawn the attention of locals in whatever region Hogwarts dropped to. The local "civilians" would've then approached the wizards as they would've approached a ninja village, hiring them to do tasks and so forth, and the wizards, in terrible need of resources, would've accepted until they would've gotten the reputation as being from the Village Hidden in Magic, or something. I was never intending to turn wizards into ninjas, though - that was kind of the point behind the idea. I was enticed by the idea of keeping wizards as wizards and ninjas as ninjas, and them testing each other's barriers tentatively. The idea of having wizards and ninjas sort of equal (as far as capability and power goes) but very different, even alien to each other... it just seemed interesting.

But I never did write it because I already had a story like this, Space Haven, which is infinitely better thought up and much more fun to write. That's probably why I didn't put that much effort into this piece. But it's still sort of interesting idea, and maybe someone will get the inspiration to try it themselves from this.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such, and happy holidays!


	22. Queen Mother, SG x HP cross

Warnings; spoilers from the 6th season of Stargate. Sort of. Also, some artistic liberty was taken. Stargate x Harry Potter crossover.

**Queen Mother**

Egeria was dreaming of terrible things when they came - of crushed hope and lost dreams and the freedom she had once enjoyed. Even in dreams that time seemed so short, mere fraction of a second, mere stolen moment before Ra was standing over her, his expression hard, his stature imposing, his words unforgiving. _Egeria. What have you done?_

Even in dreams she couldn't quite explain why she had tried to make excuses. Oh, how young she had been back then, young and foolish, charmed by her discovery, charmed by the vision which at time was not in the least plausible. _Egeria. What have you done?_ Ra asked again and again, and she tried to explain - tell him of the human she had met, the very one he had ordered her to control. They are not primitives, she tried to tell, they have philosophy, mathematics, _principles_ - they look up to heavens and they see things even we do not always see! Even where we have not guided them or controlled them, they have intelligence and imagination that might one day surpass ours!

So foolish. Even in her own dreams she berated herself for that, her young impulsive self. What ever had made her think that Ra would see it, that he would understand - and, even if he did, where had she gotten the idea that he would _accept_ it? Not to mention seeing the possibility in it. Ra was a being of power and control - especially control - he did not want to hear the word, _might surpass ours_ from anyone's lips, not even his queen's. For him humans had always been slaves, and nothing more.

Yet, there it was again, the nightmare. Her, standing shocked and frightened, caught in the act of teaching, _teaching_ a little human boy how to understand writing. Ra, at the doorway, his eyes glowing, his servants all around him, Jaffa guard's flanking him at both sides. His question, as the little boy ran off in fear, her stutters, as she tried in vain to explain what he would never understand and never, ever accept. _Egeria. What have you done?_

What _had_ she done, in the end?

She shook awake from the uneasy dreaming as words echoed through her prison, muddled and slurred by the tank's liquid, but still just barely understandable. Automatically her head jerked up to see who it was this time - the scientist who was in charge of administering the drug that kept her fertile, kept her breeding? Or the assistant, who took care of the tank's filtration system and made sure it was rich in nutrients and vitamins that she required for survival? Or perhaps the specialist who took her young away time and time again, there to check the status of her pregnancy?

Blurred shapes beyond the glass became clear, and she jerked back a little. It was the man she saw sometimes, very rarely - Dollen, politician of some sort, perhaps even a governor. Military people were there as well, flanking him, and for a moment Egeria though how much like Ra he seemed. But there were other people as well.

Young people.

"No," she whispered, as she glanced from left to right. Sometimes new people came like this to see her - only once though. Old people, young people, women, men, even children. They peered into the tank and asked questions and at the end of the day they decided, we will take the drug, you have our support. More money to the project that abused her in ways Ra had never managed. More strain to her, as they demanded her to make more and more of her mindless young.

Except, these people weren't asking questions. They were arguing. Confused, Egeria looked between Dollen and a young female - a girl, even - who was loudly arguing. "…it is inhuman no matter what direction you look it from! No, I don't care about the nature of the so called Goa'uld - despite what they have supposedly done, it doesn't change what you are doing here, which is abusing a _sentient_ being for your own good!" She was saying, waving her arms and tugging on her long, brown hair in irritation.

To which the politician answered; "Miss Granger, I understand where you are coming from, at a time I felt very much like you do, but for the good of the Pangarians we cannot halt the drug's creation process - you know of our dependency on it, and to stop would amount to a holocaust -"

"Holocaust you brought upon yourself!" she argued back, and as one of the military men and few of the scientists joined the argument, it got too blurry for Egeria to keep up with.

Still, she leaned forward, straining to hear individual opinions. She didn't know who this Miss Granger was, but to hear someone standing in defiance against the practice was a… painful relief. It had happened every once in a while during the last years - so, so many years - but it had never made much difference. People like this Granger were silenced eventually, and then the drug manufacturing continued as it had.

With a tired sigh, Egeria turned her attention away. Yes, it never meant anything, she thought, even though she appreciated the girl's passion a little. She wished, she _dearly_ wished it would've made a difference. But none of the others had. Neither had her own efforts, and there had been many of them - each other either counteracted by the Pangarians, or ignored by them. None of it made a difference.

She almost jolted back, when one of the young people pressed her face almost against the glass of her tank - a young, blonde haired girl with wide eyes, staring at her like she had never seen the like. Most likely never had, either. Had the situation been different - had her _life_ been different - Egeria might've felt amusement, maybe even some traces of that old fondness she had always held for human young. But she was too tired to do more than look back.

"Harry?" the blonde human asked, turning away. "I don't think this is a Crumple-horned Snorkack."

Another human shifted forward - a male this time. He smiled faintly. "No, I don't think so," he agreed, pressing his hand against the tank. Curious, Egeria shifted closer to see him more clearly. He had pieces of glass in front of his eyes, and dark hair. His eyes seemed tired - sad too, maybe. "Maybe we should leave," he said.

"Home?" the blonde girl asked, glancing up and away from Egeria. "I would like to go home."

"Me too, Luna, but I actually meant leaving this room - this facility. We can't go home unless we can figure the ship out, you know that," the young man, Harry, said, still looking at Egeria. He lowered his hand from the glass, and placed it on the girl's shoulder. "We should go. The others are waiting for us at the central building."

"We can't go before Hermione is done arguing," the girl answered, shrugging her shoulders and turning to look at Egeria again. "And the others can wait. Do you think she has a name?"

"Hermione?" Harry asked, sounding confused.

"I think she does. Hermione is very name like name, and Hermione goes by it, so I think that means she has a name - but no, I meant her," Luna said, tapping the glass with her finger tip. "If she is sentient like they say, then she should have a name."

"Probably yeah," Harry nodded, shaking his head. "But don't go naming her all by yourself - she might get angry at you," he added before bowing his head a little and looking Egeria into the eyes. Then he did something so surprising, that Egeria's fins shot up and she very nearly straightened herself completely. "Do you have a name?" he asked - hissing the words out softly in language she hadn't heard in ages; her own.

Before she could even begin to think of what to answer, one of the scientist rushed forward to push the two children back, saying, "Away, away from the tank; you will excite the queen!" and soon they were too far for Egeria to hear what they were saying, or if they were saying anything at all. Instead, her attention was again drawn to the argument, which was now moving away from the tank - out of the room.

"… as you say, the ship is ours and we decide whether or not we will share its secrets," the brown haired girl, Hermione Granger, was saying as Dollen led her and the others away. "I want to know more about this Tretonin and the way you make it before I will let you step one foot on that ship - because if your behaviour with that will be like the one you show for the queen…"

"…I assure you, Miss Granger, that we are wiling to share everything and do whatever we can to demonstrate that our medical procedures are not as cruel as you seem to think - and the reasons behind the necessity of the Tretonin are not as light as you believe. Fifty years ago, when the medical research originally begun, Pangar was suffering the effects of a pandemic…"

And then they were too far away for Egeria to hear, the door closing behind them and leaving her alone in her tank, in her room. She looked after them, lowering her fins and quivering with disappointment. That young human, that Harry, he could speak the mother tongue of the Goa'uld - the language the symbiotes without hosts spoke. How did he manage that? It wasn't a language humans _could_ learn - it was simply physically impossible, their vocal chords couldn't make the right sounds…

Egeria sighed, and lowered her head, eventually resting it against the bottom of the tank. She was so very tired, too tired to think, too tired to hope. Perhaps she would sleep some more, she thought, closing her eyes and letting the soft currents in the tank to tug on her fins, lulling her off to sleep. She'd have more nightmares, perhaps about Ra again, or, Janus, Numa, or possibly of her children, where ever they were - if there was any left. She would've preferred not to, but she was tired, so very tired…

Somewhere, Ra was still demanding answers. _Egeria. What have you done?_

x

She woke up to the touch, as gloved hands ran along the side of her birthing sack. Lifting her head, she glanced up to see one of the scientists leaning over the tank, both hands gloved all the way up to his shoulders to avoid skin contact with the water. She shivered, grateful of the fact that despite their medical abuse, the Pangarians never sought to physically hurt her - even now, while checking her condition and the progress of the latest of her young, the scientist's hands were almost gentle.

Once, she had tried to use these check ups to escape - or at least to bite the people who so used her - but she didn't have neither the strength of body or spirit to try, and so she just laid and let the man do his examinations.

"There are less," the scientist said to others in the room. "The sack isn't full - I think we've lost at least three this time."

Another scientist sighed, shaking his head. "That's only, what, thirty four per cycle now?" he asked with worry. "Each year it's less."

"And the fertility serum is having less and less of an effect," the first scientist agreed grimly, taking off his rubber gloves. "This is getting bad."

Had Egeria been able to talk to them, she would've told them that she was getting old - her body wasn't good enough to support the original numbers. Once, twenty or so years ago, she had once given birth to almost seventy mindless symbiotes per cycle - admirable sum for any queen without a host. But that was twenty years ago, and her efforts to lessen her young, to drain them of their minds and powers, were taking their toll on her. Another ten years or so, and she'd be completely unable to continue, no matter how they drugged her in order to keep her going.

At least by then, it would be over.

As the scientist bustled about, making notes and observations and tweaking the serum delivery system, she dozed lightly in and out again, remembering her first Tok'ra child and how happy she had been when her beliefs had been passed on. There had been so much work to do, but she hadn't been alone, she hadn't been alone… like she was now.

She came out of the sleepy haze as more people joined the room - two soldiers and the youths from before. Miss Granger was there, her hair tied back and her sleeves pulled up, looking determined. Harry was there too, talking with another young man. "… well, of course I _can_, but I'm not going to just yet - not before Hermione calms down."

"Probably a good call, mate," the other young man, red haired and freckled, chuckled

"If you two are done," Hermione snapped over her shoulder, while walking straight to Egeria's tank. "We're not here to fool around, you know," she added while bending to look at the queen.

"Ugh," the redhead said, noticing Egeria. "Merlin, she's an ug-"

"Ron, don't you dare," the brown haired girl said sternly. "This is _important_."

He grimaced, giving Egeria a slightly uneasy look. "I don't really see how," he said, pulling himself a chair while the scientist and the soldiers exchanged words behind the backs of the three young humans. "I mean this whole thing has nothing to do with us, does it? I think we should be concentrating onto _getting back home_," he said, waving his hand at the room around them. "What ever these people do in their secret facilities isn't really any of our business, is it?"

"Uuh, big mistake, mate," Harry murmured, grinning, as he turned so that Hermione couldn't see his expression.

"Not your busi - _not our business?_ Of course it is our business! They are abusing, borderline torturing this being, and I am not going to do _any_ business with the Pangarians before I know everything they have to say about this whole thing," Hermione snapped, waving around as well. "I do not associate with _enslavers_ or _torturers_."

"It's not _human_, Hermione," the redhead said, though looking a little defensive.

"So what? She _could_ be!" the girl said, lifting her chin. "Just because she doesn't look like you or talk like you, it doesn't mean she can't be intelligent, she can't have a soul or emotions - can't feel pain. How would you feel if it was Dobby in that tank - or a unicorn? Or one of us - we're not exactly _normal humans_ either, so it might as well be!"

"Okay, okay, calm down," the redhead, Ron, said, lifting his hands in surrender. "Don't bite my head off; it wasn't me who set this thing up."

The girl huffed, before turning to the scientists and demanding to see their data. Behind her, the two youths exchanged a look and sighed, apparently adjusted to her bursts. Egeria, on other hand, followed the girl's process with interest. People had spoken for her before, but never with such vehemence. And what did she mean, not exactly normal humans? They looked like humans. Perhaps they were Jaffa?

"I guess we're waiting, then," Harry muttered, chucking and approaching the tank thoughtfully. "This might take a while."

"While, which we don't have. We should be trying to figure out way to get home - we should be already heading back!" Ron muttered, folding his arms. "Not that the idea of spending another four months cooped up on a ship sounds in any way enticing, but… we should be trying. We have… we have stuff to do," he finished lamely.

"I know, trust me, I know. We have a war to fight," Harry sighed, kneeling beside the tank and looking Egeria up and down. "Sorry about that. If it hadn't been for me and that stupid vision…"

"Yeah, yeah. We know, you've said it some half a million times already. You can safely assume that we have forgiven you," Ron said, grimacing slightly as he looked between Harry and the queen. "Do you _have_ to be that close to it? It's giving me the creeps."

"I don't know," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders. "After Blast Ended Skrewts, she's not half bad looking really."

"You just _had_ to make that comparison," the redhead muttered but gave Egeria another look. "Hey, you're right. Still not a pretty sight, but yeah, she could look worse."

Egeria almost chuckled at that, not sure when was the last time she had heard simple light hearted talk like this. Mostly light hearted anyway. She had to wonder what kind of world they came from - they were obviously not Pangarians. And Pangar, as far as she knew, had no war - despite the things they did in name of medical science, they were mostly peaceful people.

"Her health is declining," the brown haired human girl said, stepping forward with a wad of papers in her arms. "The number of children she can have has gone down each year, and they've had to increase how much they feed her, and the… the fertility drugs they give her. Oh Merlin, the poor creature. And no wonder, after so many years."

"How many?" Harry asked, and Egeria glanced up. She had lost count of the years, and though it made no difference at this point, knowing would still give her… something.

"Hm. They started the experiments about forty five years ago, and she's been… she's been producing offspring's for about twenty five years," the girl looked up and to Egeria with such compassion in her eyes, that Egeria was a little taken aback.

"Ouch," the redhead murmured, shifting uneasily where he sat. "That's a long while. And didn't you say that the stuff they're making, this Tre-whatever it is, it doesn't even work right?"

"It does, and it doesn't," Hermione said, sitting down on the floor beside Harry, almost out of the range of Egeria's vision. "It does cure all illnesses - at first it was only given to those who were ill with incurable lethal diseases, and it worked almost every time. The problem is that once you've used it even once, you become dependant on it."

"Huh?"

"It means they have to keep on taking the drug," Harry explained to his redheaded friend. "So the drug is addictive?"

"No, not addictive - but those who have taken it will die if they stop taking it," Hermione answered. "It suppresses the user's immunity system to the point that the moment they stop using the drug, the moment the last dose is out of their system, their… well, their organs stop functioning properly. Most of the users who stop die of heart and liver failures."

"Merlin," Ron murmured, glancing at Egeria who was staring at the brown haired girl in surprise. She had known that there would be side effects of the drug they made of her young, but she hadn't though they'd be this severe! The Pangarians must've formed the drug in vastly different manner than she had assumed - she had thought that they used the drug as mild injections to counteract the most violent diseases. She had assumed that, at worse, the side effects would've included powerful withdrawals, nausea and maybe decreased resistance to diseases. But the drug must've been more potent than she had though, for it to have such damning after effect.

That explained why they required so much of it, why they kept forcing her to breed so rabidly…

"How many people are on it? The way they put it in the beginning, I got the impression they're _all_ on it, but this…" Harry trailed away, looking at Hermione.

"At first, the number could've been counted with one hand - only those very important to the people of Pangar were allowed to have it, scientists and such, people they didn't think they could bear to lose. But it worked so well, that people with milder diseases wished it as well. And… they thought they could eventually refine the Tretonin so that it wouldn't have such side effects," the girl said, looking a little at loss.

"How many people, Hermione?"

"About… about forty thousand," she said, glancing up to Egeria, who recoiled a little at the number.

"Forty thousand people?" Ron asked, blinking rabidly. "Forty thousand people, all using this thing? Which _kills_ you the moment you stop using it? What the hell?"

"Why did they let so many people use it?" Harry asked with shock. "If they knew that they had to keep on using the drug, why did they…?"

"They really thought they could do something about the side effects," Hermione answered, shaking her head while she leafed through the papers. "They thought that within the next five years, ten years, twenty years… answer would be found. And in that time, more people started using it, demanded access to it. They can barely produce enough to support the forty thousand using it now, but more people demand it."

She looked up and to Egeria, who was hanging her head. "Thousands of people depending on her, and she's at the end of her rope. No wonder the Pangarians want the ship - they think it might be their way of finding another Goa'uld queen…"

Egeria shifted at that, bristling. But the insult she felt at being called a Goa'uld didn't last long, not under the helpless fatigue she felt after what she had learned. "Forty thousand people," she whispered, turning away from the odd, sympathetic human children and hiding her head behind the bulk of her birthing sack. "Forty thousand people. Merciful heavens…" she hadn't thought it was so serious.

"Wait, what was that?" she heard Harry murmur, and more sensed than heard how he got up and went around the tank so that he could face her.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"I could swear I could hear her speaking," the black haired human said, and bowed to face her. Then, like before for one moment she had thought had been a mere trick of her imagination, he hissed in the mother tongue of the Goa'uld. "Can you speak?" he asked, hissing and snarling the barely used language of the symbiotes as easily as if he was speaking his own tongue. "Can you understand me, Goa'uld queen?"

Egeria lifted her head slightly and looked up to him, her fins bristling and her pincers flaring. But she hesitated, not sure if it would be wise to speak to this human, or try as she didn't know if he would understand her as she understood him. What would happen? Would the Pangarians then try and regain information from her once they knew they could communicate, torture her for technology perhaps? Or try and force her to make more offspring's for them only so that they could be killed, one after another, in name of their drug?

"I am not a Goa'uld," she finally answered him, in hisses and squeaks that were the rarely used language that, until now, she had thought only symbiotes could manage.

"She can speak," Harry murmured, kneeling beside the tank. On the other side, there was sound of scattered paper and creak as a chair was pushed back, before the two other humans joined the black haired young man. He glanced up to them. "I can't quite make it out, it's a bit different from Parseltongue - sharper. But it's similar."

"Try again," Hermione ushered him, placing her hand excitedly on his shoulder and squeezing. "Tell me what she tells you."

Harry nodded, and turned back to Egeria. "My name is Harry," he introduced himself in soft, almost gentle hiss. "Do you have a name?"

The old queen shifted a little. "My name is Egeria," she answered slowly, and when Harry frowned, she repeated her name once, and then once again.

"Egeria," Harry hissed slowly and glanced up to his friends to repeat it in human tongue. The human girl nodded excitedly, and then motioned him to go on. Turning to Egeria once more, Harry licked his lips thoughtfully, and then frowned. "What was that what you said before, that you weren't…" he trailed away.

"Goa'uld," Egeria said, her fins quivering. "I am not a Goa'uld. I am Tok'ra - I rebelled against the Goa'ulds," at this she lifted her head a little. She had little reason to be proud these days, but for that she would always feel sense of victory and accomplishments. Even if it had amounted almost to nothing, she had still done it. She had gone against the overwhelming power of the other Goa'ulds.

"Uh, what?" Harry asked, frowning, apparently not quite understanding.

"Tok'ra," Egeria repeated slower this time. "I rebelled against the Goa'ulds - I fought against them. Ra punished me for it." She had to repeat the words over and over for him to understand. The effort was making her tire quicker, however, much quicker than she would've liked, and soon her head was drooping.

"I think she says she was punished for something. Rebelling?" Harry said to his friends, trying to make sense of it. "Against, uh, Ra?"

"The Pangarians say they found her in a stasis jar of some sort," Hermione said, leaning forward. "Maybe she was put that way for a reason - maybe she's a prisoner."

"So they're breeding a criminal. What difference does that make?" Ron asked.

"Well, if the Goa'uld are like the Pangarians say they are - pretend to be gods, enslave humans, that sort of thing... then what would their prisoners be like? What would be their rebels like?" Hermione asked, leaning so heavily onto her black haired friend that Harry took support on the tank's table.

"Egeria," he said, turning to the queen with a new look about his eyes - new interest burning in the green depths. "What did you do?"

_Egeria. What have you done?_

"I chose freedom," she answered, her eyes closing as her head drifted down to rest against the bottom of the tank. "I chose freedom."

xx

Another idea that has been circling around in my head for a while, which I am now writing like mad. I always thought that Egeria, the Tok'ra queen, is a resource which isn't used enough, and I've been wanting to tap into that resource ever since Technomagus, I think. Never could figure out the way to do it right, before I got the idea of writing the whole thing from her perspective. So, now I got a whole story for her under work. Not to mention about jumping into the bandwagon of Tok'ras and Wizards. Yay.

The background is this: there is a ring transporter in the Department of Mysteries, and Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna, Ginny and Neville are cornered by the Death Eaters just on top of it. A stray spell fires the transporter up, and sends them into a escape ship left behind by Ra, which takes them to the world which had been Ra's home world when the escape ship had been set up - Pangar. Bit convenient, but every plot device is. Won't tell how the story goes from there, but with Hermione being all Hermione and the story title and all, it's probably not hard to guess what will happen.

I don't know if the end result will be in FFnet, though, because it gets a bit... weird after a while. Sort of Mpreg, but not really sort of weird. Not to mention that it has a slash pairing, uh, triangle... maybe a tetragon? Which spans through three universes. Well, it's not weird for me, I love the idea, but I'm weird, and I've found that in ffnet... well, the reactions vary. My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	23. A bit like a human, Ron centric

Warnings; Erm, lot of jealous type of introspection, almost but not really intended to be angsty? I have no idea. Oh, and Deathly Hallows Spoilers. And hints of Harry x Hermione.

**A bit like a human**

The worst thing about running away wasn't how it made him feel - though that was horrible enough. He thought - he had even wished - that he'd feel guilty or angry or remorseful, anything that would make him feel bad and punish him for what he had done. But no, only thing he felt was relief, gut wrenching, bone shaking relief that made him able only Apparate few measly miles and then fall to his knees in the pouring rain, weak with the feeling, sobbing with it. And he didn't even feel guilty about _not_ feeling guilty, because the relief was overpowering - almost liberating - like a weight had been taken off his shoulders and he was so happy about being able to stand again that he couldn't even sympathise with the others with that weight still on them.

The worst thing wasn't that, nor was it the future looming ahead, or the second guesses he knew he would soon start guessing. He would look back and wonder if it had been the right thing, to go like that, to leave his friends to fend for themselves. Maybe then he would feel guilty, or just anxious, but he would look back and second-guess. And more than that, he would look ahead and wonder, what now, what now. What now? He had no idea, all he knew was the mud beneath his knees and how easy it was, just breathing in the rain.

No. What was worst about running away was simply how easy it had been.

As his gasps and sobs finally quieted down, and he could breathe in without shaking, Ron lifted his head and looked up to the sky. He was soaked through and cold - soon he'd be freezing, not for the first time in the last weeks. He could already feel the beginnings of what might be fever, might be flu, or something worse - the panting and gasping alone had given him a headache. And yet he felt… serene. Almost at peace.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, and let the rain wash away what might've been tears. It had been so easy. So much easier than he had thought, so much easier than he had feared. Maybe it was the locket like Hermione believed, maybe it was just Ron like Harry believed, or maybe it was them like Ron himself believed, or maybe it was nothing like it. But _Merlin_, it had been easy. Just an argument, heated words, dramatic proclamation, steps away, Disapparition, and… liberation.

The redhead let out a choked laugh, leaning his head back and just letting the rain freeze him. It hadn't been this easy to breathe in almost two years now, maybe longer. And boy, what did that say about him, exactly? That he was a horrible friend? Maybe. That he was a horrible person? Probably. That he was selfish? Most definitely. Selfish, childish prat, jealous and spiteful and obnoxious and greedy… bottomless pit who could think nothing beyond food and comfort.

The laugh that came out this time was a little louder, little stranger, and swaying a little he ran his hand through his hair. "Fuck, what do you expect?" he muttered, grinning manically while his laughter faded away. "What do you expect, Harry, Hermione? What?"

That he was as brilliant as Hermione was, full of useful little titbits of information, bottomless well of random knowledge? Or that he'd be like Harry, powerful and charming and so very brave that nothing shook him? That he could actually _keep up_ with them? How the hell you keep up with a genius and someone like Harry - how the hell were you suppose to measure up to that?

The grin faded into a smile. "Fuck," he whispered, his hand shaking a little as he lowered it. He wasn't brilliant, his memory was shoddy, he was too lazy to even try to read a book not to mention about finishing one - average was all he could be and, really, he was more or less fine with that. He wasn't powerful either and he didn't have the sort of character the likes of Harry or Bill and Charlie did, not really, nor did he have their charisma. "Just a little old me," he muttered, and grimaced. "Average, insignificant little Weasley me."

Hermione and Harry, they… they were _brilliant_. And not in the smart, cool way - they _glowed_ with what they were. Power and knowledge and potential and all the sort of good things - they had gotten to the right lines in the beginning, gotten the first pick on the qualities and characteristics. Ron, on other hand, he had probably been taking a nap somewhere in the background, dreaming of Quidditch, while the others had been lining.

Despite whatever whoever said, Ron had never been really jealous of them - not in the _I wish that was me_ way. If he was, their friendship wouldn't have lasted past the couple of months. Instead all he had felt was profound disappointment in himself every step along the way - because try as he might, because no matter what Harry and Hermione tried to say, because despite everything he did _he could never measure up_. He had no qualities that could compare - he would probably never have any qualities that would compare.

And Hermione and Harry had never seen it. Well, maybe Hermione had, a little - she was the smart one - but she hadn't really understood. And neither had Harry, because really, neither of them saw themselves for what they really were - they couldn't see what other people saw in them, what Ron saw.

They had absolutely no idea _why_ Voldemort wanted them dead so badly. If either of them had been a little bit like Ron, the old snake faced bastard wouldn't have given a damn. But no, they weren't. That was what made them dangerous for Voldemort - unlike anyone else, they would keep going. Take their comforts and helpers, take their food and warmth - hell, chop off their arms and legs - and they'd still keep on going.

"Shit, shit, shit…" Ron hissed between clenched teeth, rocking back and forth while running his hands over his face. Knowing that his two best friends had no idea where he was - and probably no intention of looking for him either - was a relief, but still, the old inadequacy raised its head, wrapping around his torso like the Devil's Snare had, all those years before. It made him wish for one ugly moment that he could blame his friends - they should be looking for him, asking his forgiveness - before he stomped the feeling to ground. Hell no. He didn't deserve it - and his friends were better than that. They were _so much_ better than that.

Everything he wasn't.

He mulled that thought in his head, before sighing. "And isn't that the truth?" he muttered, shaking his head.

It was strange, though. Since the very first year - hell, since the very first weeks - since getting to know Harry, he had been waiting for Harry to walk away. Malfoy, curse him, had always been right about one thing - some wizards were better than others. Harry would've been better off being friends with Neville - because Neville was ten times the wizard Ron was. But Harry never had seen it. And neither had Hermione, for all her brilliance. Or maybe they had, but they had remained his friends out of pity - or maybe because he made them look so much better in comparison -

"Shut up," Ron hissed at himself, kneading his knuckles into his temples, desperately wishing he could just rearrange his brain and make himself unable to think the stupid, nasty thoughts. Merlin, how he wished he just could've been a _better person_, even just a little bit better would've been enough.

The fact that Hermione and Harry both _were_ only made things so much worse. Because while he had spend weeks and months wondering, _would this be the week they would realise what a loser I am_, they had probably never even considered it. Because unlike him, they were so damn _good_. If there was a thing called a _light wizard_, Harry and Hermione were it. And what was Ron? Probably something like murky brown wizard with hint of maroon and _frills_ just because it would be just his luck.

Just thinking about it made him feel like someone had stuffed him into a box.

But he had tried to the best of his ability to be what his friends deserved. It was just… not hard, but plain _impossible_. He couldn't keep up, he wasn't really equal, he was barely worth it to stand behind them - and all his feeble attempts to make a difference made none. He tried to be Harry's friend, but his own issues made him fail at that over and over - or he was plain incapable of keeping up. And, yeah, he had really tried on the idea of being Hermione's boyfriend, but that would never work. She made him feel so stupid, so clumsy, so painfully unworthy that he would never be able enjoy a single moment spent alone with her, not really.

While in the mean while Harry and Hermione were so damn perfect for each other, that of course they were blind to it to the point of complete, overwhelming denial. Probably because Harry, selfish kind _perfect_ Harry, had decided somewhere along their fourth year that, obviously, Ron liked Hermione. And Hermione, as always, had gone with Harry's ideas. And they were so masterful at their self-control that they actually believed the bullshit they made up, to the point where Harry had actually started dating Ginny.

Damn, how much Ron wanted to hate him for that. Because really, what was Harry really doing but leading Ginny along, keeping her childish crush alive, making her hope? He was leading Ginny along while Hermione was leading Ron along and Merlin it was messed up. Except, of course, it wasn't. Because neither of them thought like he did. They could make it work - hell, they could probably keep it up for _years_ if they wanted to. Harry would really be in love with Ginny, he would treat her like she deserved to be treated and better, he would pamper her to heaven and back. And Hermione would believe herself in love with Ron and be the kind, understanding, patient wife she would no doubt believe Ron deserved. And then, ten, twenty years later, they would realise it all, and it would go to hell…

"Ugh," Ron grunted, shaking his head. Even if all that would happen, even if they did realise the mistakes they had made, it would change nothing. They would still keep at it, Harry would remain with Ginny and Hermione with Ron and they would probably be able to fool themselves to think that they were even happy - because the alternative would probably never occur to them, not when it would make others unhappy.

How was anyone supposed to be able to handle _that_? People weren't supposed to _be_ like that, it just… even Bill and Charlie, whom Ron had held in glorified position of his personal idols from the moment he had understood what they were like, weren't like _that_. They were still, well, _human_. With _selfish desires_ and all. Hermione and Harry were plain -

"No, shut up already," he growled at himself, pushing himself up from the ground and to his feet. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, making colours blare before his sight, and stayed there until the thought went away. World would be better place if there were more people like Harry and Hermione, damn it, he _knew_ that better than anyone else. It was just his own shortcomings, trying to make him resent them for it, just like Bill had told him two summers ago…

Thinking of Bill made him for a moment wonder where he'd go now. Weeks upon weeks on the road with his friends, living in that damned tent, starving every day, it left him reeling. For a moment he felt the call for home - because, yeah, Harry had been right about that. If he'd go there, his mum would cook for him and take care of him, nurse him to health sort of speak. And he could really pretend that his Spattergroit was over and done with and no one would be the wiser…

Yeah, and he'd be able to live with himself after that _so_ easily he'd be as happy as dwarf in a land slide. _If_ his mum let him live, that was.

He could go to Bill's and Fleur's place - Bill would welcome him. Well, he would probably give one of his speeches about self worth and all that, and Ron would end up moping around for days, feeling sorry for himself, but Bill would still not kick him out, or even truly blame him for leaving. Bill was cool like that - he just understood stuff like this…

Ron let the train of thought trail away, as he turned to look at the direction where Hermione and Harry were, probably still in the cold tent, planning their next move. They'd go out, looking for the sword of Gryffindor - they'd probably find it too. Then they would have the ability to destroy the locket and every other Horcrux they would find, and in the end… Harry would probably use the sword to cut off Voldemort's head. The concept was so plain obvious that Ron could just imagine it.

Somehow, sitting in the guest room of Bill's house didn't seem so welcoming in compared to that. Not that he wouldn't enjoy his stay - it would be brilliant, he was sure. But it would be hollow. It already _was_ hollow. Not because he'd be betraying Harry and Hermione, thought he obviously was. Not because he was supposed to be helping them out, because really, did they even _need_ him? No - because sitting back, doing nothing and rotting with his own uselessness… well, it would only make him hate himself more.

But what could he really do? Go back? That would probably kill a piece of him and then he'd never get out of the shadow of his two best friends - it would smother him sooner or later. And as much as Hermione and Harry would probably do it, if it was them in his place, he couldn't. Six years, going on seven, he had spent in that shadow, choking. And he wasn't selfless enough to continue.

"Sorry guys," he muttered, waving a haphazard hand towards the direction of their tent. "You're gonna have to find someone else. Someone better. Shouldn't be that difficult."

With that, he turned and begun trekking his way across the rainy forest, with no idea what he was doing or where he was going, but feeling a little better because of it.

xx

I got annoyed because everywhere I went all I seemed to encounter was Ron-hate. So, now I'm writing a story with him as a main character. That's my logic in a nut shell.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	24. Long live the city, HP x SGA cross

Warnings: none, except severe lack of explanation. Harry Potter Stargate Atlantis crossover

**Long live the city**

Harry found himself mesmerised by the view in front of him, just outside the window. It was magnificent, unlike anything he had ever seen. A city silently sitting in the bottom of what seemed to be an ocean, with water still and heavily present just outside the window's glass and over every tall spire of the city. He couldn't count the spires, but he was sure there were dozens of then and that there were more than he could see, further into the dark blue shadows of the ocean floor.

"Hey, you," Harry was startled out of his reverie by a man in dark blue uniform, wearing a black vest. He was dark skinned and surprisingly young, holding onto a heavy muggle weapon a little too tightly for the casual look on his face to be real. "Which way did the search team go?" the man asked, glancing left to Harry, where the corridor forked.

"That way," Harry said instinctively, pointing to the right side fork, before turning back to stare out of the window in amazement. He could feel the other man's eyes in the back of his head, before the man spoke again.

"Shouldn't you be doing something?" he asked. "You know, other than standing around?"

Harry nodded absently and reluctantly stepped back and away from the window, while the dark skinned man, a soldier, jogged away and to the right side fork on the corridor. For a while the wizard stared after him, before turning back to the window and continuing to stare.

He was fairly certain there was nowhere he was supposed to be, because he didn't know where he even was, because the view outside the window was all he knew. He stared at the impossible ocean view for a long while, until it was time to go.

Few minutes later Lieutenant Ford found the search team, not knowing that if he had continued straight ahead, he would've triggered a system that, unable to stand the strain of being active after ten thousand years, would've malfunctioned and flooded the entire level.

x

Harry walked absently across a corridor, not all that different from the one where he had seen the inside ocean view - though this one lacked the windows. He was still mesmerised by his surroundings, by the artistically made pillars and the cryptic walls and the peculiar aquarium parts in the walls that bubbled and showered their surroundings with eerie blue light. The place, even for a wizard, was absolutely magical.

Then he heard the choked sobs and turned his eyes to the woman up ahead, who was hurriedly trying to gather various gadgets back into a suitcase, that had apparently fallen over. She wasn't getting much work done, however, because of the sobs that shook her, making her hands shake and drop what she was trying to gather up, scattering the various items all across the floor.

Harry blinked, before jogging to her, crouching beside her, and quickly starting to gather the odd items she had scattered.

"Oh!" the woman said, startled, looking up to him. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean - I'm going to gather these - please, you don't need to bother -" she babbled in accented voice while simultaneously trying to wipe her tears away, gather the items, and push Harry away. "Please, you probably have work to do, I can do this…"

"It's okay, let me…" Harry answered shaking his head, shifting to his knees and reaching for the further most items, depositing them to the open suitcase - pretending not to notice how the woman wiped her face. She sniffled, then let out a quivery sigh. "I'm sorry, it's just. I can't swim, and I'm a bit claustrophobic, and - and, really, I'm not normally like this, but Doctor McKay said that the shield's failing, and I - I…"

Harry nodded, more absently than with any understanding, and finished her packing for her, closing the suitcase, and standing up. Sniffling, the woman sat up again, taking the suitcase, and pulling up a brave face. "I'm sorry," she said again, nodding and smiling a quivering smile. "Thanks."

"It's okay," he repeated and smiled back. "Hang in there."

She nodded and Harry watched as she continued along the corridor, before noticing another item that had been kicked off too far, and which had ended up half hidden behind a pillar. Blinking, he picked it up and looked at it. It was, as far as he understood muggle technology, some sort of adapter. The wire had broken a little near the bulky adapter itself, probably when it had fallen.

For a moment he considered calling the woman back, but decided against it. Instead, he put the adapter into his pocket, and continued along the corridor.

If Doctor Miko had found it, she would've taken it with her and few hours later, she would've attempted to hook it into the power grid, causing a short that would've proven fatal to her.

x

He stopped by a door, looking it up and down until it hissed softly and opened, revealing a darkened room beyond. Curious, Harry stepped forward and then blinked sharply as the lights turned on seemingly by themselves, first lighting odd consoles that looked little like musical instruments, then the screens above them, and finally the ceiling and the walls. The room was interesting in odd, futuristic and yet artistic way, and completely unlike anything he had seen before, so while trying to take it all in, he stepped inside, glancing behind him as the door automatically closed.

He circled the room absently, taking in the odd consoles and their glass like keys, before stopped beside one in the side, running his hand over the keys until the screen above changed. Harry looked up to it, considering the flickering symbols and flashing lights, before pressing few keys almost inattentively, keeping his eyes on the screen and watching it as the text shifted and changed. As his fingers seemed to know what they were doing, he let them work until the flickering text on the screen seemed right, and his fingers stopped.

Elsewhere, power was routed around a damaged conduit, safely reaching it's destination without a hitch.

x

Harry glanced around in a dimly lit hall before spotting a spiral staircase leading up. As he started to make his way up, someone else was coming down.

"Oh, sorry, sorry, just let me -" the man carrying a box full of wrapped food items said, trying to squeeze pass him and almost knocking himself and the box over in the process.

Harry took hold of the box before the man managed to lose his balance and stumble down the stairs. "They're setting the food up in the second-level-down," he pointed out while noticing that majority of the items in the box really seemed food related.

"I know, I just - I was just thinking - I mean, it doesn't matter if I take just few - you know, just in case…" the man stumbled to explain before deflating and just looking guilty and embarrassed like child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He looked between the box, the stairs and the hall below them, and refused to meet Harry's eyes.

"Take them back," Harry simply said, handing the box back. The man hesitated before sighing, and starting to make his way up again. Harry followed him and watched until he hurried up another staircase and towards the right level. Satisfied, he continued his way down the hall.

In four week's time, one of the power bars the man hadn't managed to stash away would save another man from hypoglycaemic shock.

x

Harry didn't get time to marvel the odd docking station and the cylinder ships there, before his feet took him to a glowing light-switch type of thing, and his hands moved to detach the cover. On the other side of the room, two men were marvelling the ships too, one of them wondering about how they could be used from under water. Harry, while listening them, watched as his hands worked with odd crystal disk inside the panel he had removed, switching places, and turning them around.

Unknowingly he locked the roof in place, making it impossible for anyone to open it from the bay - saving the ships and the people marvelling them from the flood they would've caused ten minutes later if he hadn't been there.

xx

Seemed like an interesting idea of the time, Harry working as sort of accidental guardian angel for the Atlantis Expedition. I have no idea why he ended up there and how he gained the subconscious knowledge about how to save the expedition from themselves. Erm. Maybe he was a ghost or something which sort of floated in with the expedition, and sensing him Atlantis pumped him full of energy and knowledge and then made him work around the city? Or maybe he's not there at all, but hologram created by Atlantis, with his appearance and memories and such extracted from the recollections of someone in the city, maybe Hermione who is now elite muggle scientist? I have no idea. If this had felt like continuing, I'm sure I would've figured it out, though.

Also I don't take suggestions.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	25. Step Forward, crossover

Warnings; implied death of everybody. Crossover between Harry Potter and the Sentinel, but there's not enough of the Sentinel stuff for people to need to actually know about it. And once more, the story is in drabble format.

**Step Forward  
**

1.

Harry spent two weeks digging the graves and burying his dead.

2.

In the end, leaving magic behind him was harder and easier than he had thought. It took him a week's time to fill out the paperwork - the confidentiality agreements and the secrecy documents, the magical contracts and the insurance forms - or the anti-insurance forms which informed him in plain terms that he was no longer welcome in any magical medical establishment and that St. Mungos and similar facilities would no longer be responsible for his health.

He was first in a long while to go through the whole thing officially, he heard from the man overlooking the procedure. Normally people just packed their wands and spell books and just took off to parts unknown, to live as a secret wizard or witch among the muggles, even if they would never cast a spell afterwards. It was easier - and if something would happen, they would still be able to call upon the Ministry or the Aurors or anyone else they wanted.

Not Harry thought. He was done, he was finished and he was cutting himself loose. So, he officially handed and signed his wand away and watched over as it was destroyed. He and the official overseeing him went through his personal belongings and everything magical was first liquefied into galleons, which were then transferred to muggle money. Everything, his books, his broom, his _photo album_ after the photos were copied to muggle format - even his rare jewellery and his watch - all were evaluated and sold.

All of it was now ten times more valuable than they had been when new, because they were _Harry Potter's_ _things_ now, not just _things_. The photo album got him some ten thousand galleons alone - even the Grimmauld place wasn't worth that much. The final days of the procedures he went through in muggle clothing - even his robes had been sold at a high price, his four sets of Hogwarts uniforms fetching respectable five thousand galleons alone.

Then, after days' worth of signature swapping and some blood signing for the magical effect, he was cut loose, with his only magical item being the signed contract with an International Confederation of Wizard stamp on it, which gave him the magical equivalent of diplomatic immunity where ever he went. With a new muggle bank account filled with more pounds he knew what to do with and nothing else but the clothes on his back, Harry Potter stepped out of the world of magic - officially no longer a wizard.

3.

First thing he did in his new, magic free life and world was to split the money he had in two and deposit half of it into a sealed account with a will which had been looked over by a lawyer with the whole legal proceedings included. Should he have children, his kids would inherit the account - if not, it would go to various charities. Orphanages mostly.

4.

It was spring time and for a long while Harry spent his time doing nothing but watching it - the new leafs in trees rustling in the wind, the flowers blooming merrily on the side of the road, the weeds climbing up the sides of walls, the grass growing brightly and enthusiastically… It was nothing new, nothing he hadn't seen before, but he stared for a long, long while.

It felt odd to him, alien even, just to sit on some dirty old park bench and watch the trees wave in the wind. It felt raw.

He decided then that the next spring he'd see, it would be somewhere elsewhere - where the flowers weren't so familiar and the trees didn't smell like home.

5.

Secretly he wished someone would've objected to him leaving.

6.

A man in black suit and black tie greeted him sombrely in the Washington Airport, and then lead him to a private room for a long private chat. The chat involved the inch-thick folder of Harry's many files and contracts and agreements, in top of which was the statement of his diplomatic immunity, signed by the Supreme Mugwump. But apparently the wizards in the States had their own procedures because it wasn't quite enough, and Harry was asked to sign three more contacts.

"That about covers it," the man, a Magical Investigative Bureau agent named Janson, said while closing the folder. "Now, to the actual business. What is your reason for coming here?"

Harry thought about it for a moment, thinking back and ahead and little bit sideways, drumming the table between them with his fingertips. "I was thinking of trying to get proper muggle schooling," he mused. "A degree or something." He had enough money to last him a lifetime, but he wanted something to do, something new - he wanted someone new to _be._ He wasn't a wizard anymore, after all, even if magic was still flowing through his veins.

"Muggle schooling," the agent mused, looking both surprised and satisfied, like he had been half expecting it, but not. "And you decided to try and get one in here? I understand school fees are easier to handle in United Kingdom."

"Maybe, but I figured there was no real reason why I couldn't do it elsewhere just as well," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders. "I figured something new would be just what the Doctor ordered," he added, more to himself than to the agent, who regardless gave him an understanding look.

"Well then. You must understand that it won't be easy," the man said. "You lack previous muggle schooling except for elementary school - and as prestigious as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry it, it's nothing you can mention in the muggle world. At your age you should be applying to university, but without high school diploma…"

"I know," Harry agreed and then looked the man more thoughtfully. He was prepare for lot of work and lot of years spent while working on it, but the man's words were open at the end - like there was something else there. "What about it?"

"Well… the Bureau might be able to help you there," agent Janson said, clasping his hands together and leaning a bit closer. "How do you feel about a concept of doing some consultation work for us, Mr. Potter?"

7.

Harry read through some files and books and browsed the internet for a while in search for a good sounding university, before sighing, printing out a list with some two hundred potential universities in it. He pinned the list a corkboard and then threw a dart at it. It landed on Rainier University.

The Bureau was a little displeased - Cascade only had three magical citizens living there, two of them retired and third a muggleborn that had been born just couple of months back. But they said nothing and instead pitched in by sending someone to help him find an apartment and sort out his finances - and cast a little bit of magic to get Harry enrolled in Rainier, no questions asked.

The house Harry selected was a sixth floor flat in the fringes of the city, a sort of aged apartment building with mostly elderly living in it, where the hall smelled weird and the neighbours were nosy - but the view was great and homely and reminded him tower rooms in Hogwarts. Despite the view and the size of the place, he got it rather cheaply - and while it was much, much smaller than the Grimmauld Place it was still larger than he really needed, and two of his three bedrooms would probably remain empty for weeks, if not months.

As late spring turned to early summer, he found out why the apartment had been so cheap - it got excruciatingly hot around noon, even with air conditioning. He decided to call the place _the Kiln_ afterwards. It seemed to fit.

8.

He spent his summer mostly shopping. Furniture, house hold appliances, washing machines… they were the first. Then he attended to his other needs and bought clothing, cooking utensils, stuff for his bathroom, curtains, sheets, towels… And after that, he spent some time buying random items that he didn't really need, television he never watched, hundreds of books of which he would probably only read few and shelves to put them. He bought a computer he didn't know how to use and decorative objects he didn't understand but liked regardless - and one hundred pairs of socks of varying designs and materials.

9.

In mid summer, he visited the local animal shelter, and brought back a half blind black dog and a brown kitty that got along surprisingly well. The Kiln felt a little bit more like home afterwards.

10.

Harry learned how to cook - again - and how to clean things by hand rather than by spell. He learned how not to mumble a spell when ever he needed something across the room and instead go to get it himself. Eventually he even learned not to wonder about British magical world, about the news he didn't get, about rumours that weren't his problem anymore. That one was bit harder to learn, with agent Janson visiting him twice or so a week to ask his opinion, input or expertise with this and that - a spell project, a magical criminal, a creature attack… but eventually he did learn it.

But some things couldn't be just _unlearned_ or forgot - though he did try. In the end he sought out the local martial arts class and joined, desperately needing to replace magical battle strategies with something else - desperate to learn new reflexes because the wand he automatically reached for was no longer there.

11.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep for the _longing_ for magic, for the second guessing himself, for the regret, he would slip out of his bed in the middle of the night. He would pull on some clothes before making his way up and to the roof with Serious trotting at his side, tail wagging a friendly tattoo against his thigh. Cascade was cloudy and rainy - and rather like UK actually - but sometimes the clouds were shredded enough for him to see the heavens. Sometimes the city's lights weren't that bright and he could see even the stars.

Divination was only magic his contracts - or his decisions - couldn't stop him from using.

12.

The Magical Investigative Bureau had supplied him with everything from brochures to blue prints, so when Harry for the first time made his way to Rainier University, it didn't seem as foreign as it probably should have. There were more students there than Harry was adjusted to and the whole concept of university with many teachers and wings and classes which he wouldn't be studying was strange, but he knew he'd get adjusted to it sooner or later.

In his orientation he talked with Jane Williams who sat in his right - thirty four years old, a single mother with twelve year old kid, and whole new outlook to university life - and Alec Summers who sat on his left - four years younger than Harry, Canadian wiz-kid with arrogant smirk that Harry didn't buy for a second. Harry offered to buy them both lunch after the first class, and despite all the odds, they somehow have something in common that made them sit together in the next class too.

What that something was, though, Harry had no idea.

13.

Alec made Harry feel old and slow - the kid was studying four times as many subjects as Harry was, or that was his plan anyway. "I think I'm going to go all on at Physics, you know? But having that be it would be just boring, so, neuro-linguistics just to spice things up and architecture too, designing buildings is really something, and anthropology because, you know." Harry didn't, actually, but he nodded all the same.

Jane, on other hand, made Harry feel young and impulsive. "I was studying to be a nurse when I got pregnant with Jamie. Couldn't continue with him on the way, so I dropped out and got a job instead so that I could support the both of us. Of course it wasn't that easy, but I always figured that once he'd be old enough to go to school, I could too - and by that time I'd have enough money saved up so that I might just manage…"

He didn't know what to tell them about himself. Alec was from somewhat simple family - no siblings, dad unemployed and mum working fourteen hours a day, and the scholarship he had was the only reason why he had gotten into good university like Rainier. And Jane, despite having planned well ahead, didn't have things so easy either and often came to school looking tired and stressed. In the end he said nothing, and when they asked about his family he just told them he had a dog and a cat.

They still looked at him funny every Tuesday and Thursday when Harry was picked from school by agent Janson for their usual consultation-over-lunch meeting, but there was little Harry could do about that

14.

The magical law enforcement - and crime - worked completely different in United Kingdom and in United States. "No other county on Earth has Dark Magic like the British do," Janson explained. "So no other country really needs a dark wizard catching force like the Aurors." They had their agents and their warlocks, but people specialised just for dark magic weren't thick on the ground. They really didn't have Defence Against the Dark Arts either, not like in Britain.

The problem was, in the year Voldemort had ruled the magical Britain dark arts had gotten a booming popularity everywhere - and United States hadn't been spared from it. With the British Ministry of Magic still in too much shambles to offer any help with the problem, they had to turn to anyone they just could, anyone with any expertise at all.

And Harry was the more or less the highest ranking specialist when it came to Dark Arts and defending against them.

15.

Being in school again made Harry feel like an idiot. He was so used to quills that writing with pens and pencils took some time to get hang of. He wrote essays like someone from the nineteenth century according to his teachers, and it wasn't a compliment. He was slow and disorganised when researching and despite how Alec tried to teach him, he didn't really get the hang of searching stuff from the internet. Relearning how to learn was the hardest part, because muggle education was centuries ahead of the magical equivalent - and not just in the study subjects.

It seemed hopeless despite held from Alec and Jane and especially without Hermione there to help. He felt slow and clumsy - really like someone from the nineteenth century, trying to keep up with the speed of the modern world.

It was weird how much he enjoyed it - and in the same time it wasn't, not really.

xx

Was in mood of a bit less cheery story, sort of moving on story, if that makes sense. As the story went on, I intended to go bit by bit into what happened and all that, the reason why Harry had to bury everyone and why he ditched magic, and eventually even get into the crossovery stuff and all. Sadly I'm in that mood where I start couple of stories per week but only manage to write them some 4000 words before I get bored, it's very frustrating.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	26. Wolves, the Sentinel x HP cross

Warning; some referances to past slashiness. The Sentinel x Harry Potter crossover.

**Wolves**

Jim smothered the urge to groan while running his hands over his face. He felt heavy. Not just that usual clichéd weight-on-his-shoulders heavy, but just _heavy_. His hands and arms felt heavy, and so did his legs and it took conscious effort not to drag his heels as he walked. The concept that he should probably undress and then take a shower and then collapse onto some soft surface to sleep all seemed like too much work, but still he forced himself to lower his hands from his face and tackle the zipper of his jacket.

He didn't usually mind late stakeouts. It was just that when they lasted long, and you had to spent them in a cold car and then, after it all, you had to run, be pushed around, then run some more - only to find that the perp had been taken in by the roadblock - it all seemed a little bit too much. _I'm getting old,_ he mused while tiredly hanging his jacket away. Just five years ago he would've been up to doing it all over again if needed. Now he just wanted to sleep the next week and half away and never move a muscle again.

"Sandburg?" he called, only now really taking in the loft. It was dark, darker than he had assumed. "Guess he's not home," Jim murmured, feeling faintly disappointed. He wasn't sure when, but somewhere along the last year spent living with a roommate, he had learned to expect a... welcome.

He didn't take Blair to stakeouts unless the perp was his own - this time it had been Brown's and he had been just covering for the lack of people, so he had let Blair stand this one out. Partially it was because the kid was still a student, and an assistant teacher, and doing his thesis - working as a police observant on the side was already too much of an increase on already large workload. Adding late stakeouts to that seemed a little bit too much. Mostly, though, it was because Blair was a nightmare on stakeouts. Too much talking, among other things.

That usually meant that Blair was home when he came back. Once or twice Jim had came home to a warmly lit loft with the fire on and a warm cup of tea waiting for him - beverage he usually didn't much care for but which always felt welcome after a long day. He hadn't even noticed when he had started to expect it, for Blair to be there, but the lack of him brought it home.

_Definitely getting old,_ Jim sighed while turning on the lights and glancing around. It didn't seem that his partner had been home for a few hours - his scent was faded in the living room. Apparently study session had stretched. Not the first time that had happened. Shaking his head, Jim undressed his shoes and walked further into the apartment, stretching his hands as he went in hopes of making them feel less heavy. Jesus, he was tired.

He hit the answering machine on his way to the kitchen, wondering if they had the ingredients for a sandwich. As he went to check, the recordings started to play. First one was from Blair himself. "It's me. Hey, listen, man. Janice has an important test tomorrow, so I'm going to stay over and help her study," familiar voice said, sounding tinny and slightly garbled. From the background of the message, Jim could hear distant sounds of cars, late birds and what sounded suspiciously like someone humming. "So, I probably won't be back until late. Oh, and there should be some pizza left in the fridge, in case you're hungry."

Jim smiled as he found the said pizza and the message cut off. There was another from the forensics lab. "Jim, it's Sam. I tried to catch you on your cell, but I guess were busy. I got the results from the fibres you wanted to check - seems like the stuff from high grade carpet. There was also some beeswax in it, I think from a candle. I left the file in your desk." With that said, she cut off.

_Carpet fibres and candle wax. That would go well with Mrs Simmons's testimony about the fire,_ Jim mused, thinking back to one of his cases while putting some of the pizza slices onto a plate and shoving them to a microwave. _Still, I doubt that's all... she was lying through her teeth when I questioned her..._

In the background, a third message started to play. "Hullo. This is Harry Potter, I'm trying to get hold of Blair Sandburg," an accented voice spoke, making Jim sigh. Another foreign colleague of Blair's whom he had met on this or that expedition. Blair really ought to get his own cell phone already. "Blair, I'm not sure if you remember me, we met two years ago in London, on July the thirty-first. Or, well, I guess it was already August the first... Anyway. I'm in Cascade now, and I was hoping to see you again - I need your help with something. It has to do with those... watchmen of yours. If you're interested, call me on ..."

The rest of the message faded into the background for Jim who stood still by the fridge. The message cut off in a beep that made the man almost jump as he turned around to stare at the now silent answering machine. Watchmen? _Sentinels_, Jim corrected silently. Whoever Harry Potter was and however he knew Blair, Blair had told him about Sentinels. _Two years - that'd be year before he met me... just how long has Blair been planning his thesis anyway?_

He let the thought roll for a moment before straightening his shoulders. _Well, Blair probably told lot of people about his plans. That nurse for one, who let him know about me..._ he thought, turning away and taking his pizza from the microwave. _Maybe he told this guy in case he encountered some research material or whatever. Maybe Potter found some transcript or something._

That didn't make him feel any better. "I need your help with something, it has something to do with sentinels" didn't sound much like the guy had found something for Blair. Jim wasn't sure what it sounded like, but he didn't like the sound of it. _I'm overreacting,_ he thought sternly and forced himself to relax. _Maybe the guy's researching Sentinels too, and needs some help with that..._ No, that didn't work; the guy would actually know they were called Sentinels if that was the case.

Frowning, Jim got a beer from the fridge and sat down to eat his meagre late meal, still wondering about Potter. _Wants help with something that has something to do with Sentinels, and yet doesn't know enough to call them Sentinels,_ he mused and his frown darkened. He really didn't like the sound of that.

Shaking his head, Jim turned to his food and forced the thoughts out of his head in favour of eating. While putting his plate away, he studiously ignored the answering machine, only turning to eye it as he reached for his half finished beer. He was seriously considering checking out who this Harry Potter guy was. Maybe run his name through some searches... _Now I'm being idiot. It could be something important,_ he thought. Still, it made him edgy. The whole Sentinel thing always made him get nervous, it was hard not to when it seemed like so many people knew more about him and how he worked than he himself did.

_Shower,_ he decided after moment of wondering that only got more and more irritated with each thought. _That's what I need. Shower and then some sleep and tomorrow I'll ask about it._

With that settled, he set the beer bottle down and determinately headed for the bathroom to drown his straying thoughts in shampoo and soap. It almost worked too, except in middle of his shower he could hear steps, then keys jingling, and next thing he knew Blair was home, dropping keys to the basket and by the sound of it, stumbling out of his shoes.

"Jim, man, you home?" voice as familiar as the back of his hand called, sounding faintly pleased.

"Yeah," Jim called over the shower. "Ate your pizza, too."

"Guess I can keep the bagels to myself, then? Excellent," Blair answered cheerfully, rustling a plastic bag as he spoke. "How did the stakeout go? Did you catch the guy?"

"Roadblock did," Jim answered, quickly rinsing the soap away and turning the shower off. "Brown took him to the station - it's gonna be a long night for him." He reached for a towel and quickly dried himself off before wrapping the cloth around his hips and stepping out of the bathroom. "Your friend set for her test?" he asked, smothering a grin at the sight of Blair, sprawling across the couch with a bag of bagels sitting on his stomach. His hair was a mess.

"Yeah, I hope so. She promised to have my pride and joy for lunch if she doesn't pass," the younger man grinned and lifted the bag lazily. "Bagel?"

"Nah, I'm full," Jim shook his head and reached for his discarded beer. It was a little warm now, but he didn't mind. "You, uh... you got a message," he said, motioning at the machine. "From some English guy. It's the third one," he added as Blair pulled himself up to his feet, making it seem like the hardest physical task he had ever taken, and made his way to the machine. Soon after, the message played again and Harry Potter told Blair he needed his help.

"Colleague?" Jim asked as Blair just stood there, staring at the machine.

"Ah, no, I don't think so; I think I'd remember him. Harry Potter?" the younger man frowned, leaning onto the wall and folding his arms in thought. "Two years ago in July. Yeah, I was in London then, I went in as Eli's assistant, he was giving few lectures - he had just broken his leg that month and needed a hand..." he trailed away and then looked up. "Ah! Now I remember, I spent a whole day with that guy! And two nights. God, I can't believe I forgot his name..."

Jim frowned as Blair played the message again, writing the number down to a post-it-note. "So, who is he?"

"Hm? Ah, I don't know. I met him in a bar - I think he said that he was a dropout from some private school, but I'm not sure." Blair shrugged, trying for nonchalance that the cop didn't quite buy. "He wasn't exactly talkative."

None of that really satisfied Jim's curiosity. "You told him about Sentinels?"

"Yeah. Brattled away like an idiot - I was only planning on my thesis back then. Can't believe he remembered that," Blair mused, eying the phone number with a thoughtful look about his face, before checking the clock. He sighed. "He's probably not awake anymore, right?"

Jim glanced at the clock. It was way past midnight. "Probably not," he agreed.

"I'll call him tomorrow then; see what he needs help with. Something to do with Sentinels... sounds interesting," Blair murmured, placing the post-it-note neatly beside the answering machine. He eyed it for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and turning back to the couch, snatching the bag of bagels as he did and taking out one more. "So, what are your plans for tomorrow?"

"I got work at eleven," Jim answered. "I got two cases on the work; hopefully I can close the Pine Lane fire tomorrow."

"You need a hand there? I only got one class tomorrow and it's at three, so I could ride along until then," Blair offered.

"Sure, if you want to," Jim shrugged. He had a crime scene to look over, which he hadn't yet dared to do because the place was flooded with burned remains of scented candles, and his senses had gone to frits the last time he had tried. With Blair there, though, he might actually be able to check the place out without getting spikes or going to a zone.

"That settles it," Blair said, stretching and sitting up. "Now though, I'm going to go to bed."

"Yeah, me too," Jim said, glancing at him as the shorter man headed for the bathroom. "Night, Chief."

"Nighty night," Blair answered with a grin, and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Jim gave the answering machine a final glance, before finishing his beer and making his way upstairs to his bedroom. _I guess it wasn't that important,_ he mused. The thought didn't console him much and the sensation of nervousness remained.

x

In the following morning, while Jim sorted through a dream he had had of a large cat and grey wolf prowling the loft, Blair dialled the number Potter had given. He didn't even make a pretence of trying to make it a private conversation, as both of them knew he'd have to walk at least six blocks away before he'd be far enough for Jim not to hear the conversation. The Sentinel tried not to look like he was eavesdropping, but he was probably even more curious about this Potter guy than Blair was.

A hotel receptionist answered the phone, making Jim perk up with slight surprise. He hadn't really paid that much attention to the number potter had given, but apparently he was staying not only at a hotel, but one of the most expensive hotels in the town, the _Blue Cascade_. Blair apparently hadn't realised it either, as he raised his eyebrows at Jim at the sound of the receptionist chirpily announcing the hotel's name and asking for his business. "Ah, yes. My name's Blair Sandburg, I'm trying to reach a guy staying in the room four-seven-eight, Harry Potter? He told me to call…"

The receptionist happily answered that she had been expecting the call, that _Mr. Potter_ had said the call should be patched through immediately, despite strict do-not-disturb sign at the door. Then she promptly forwarded the call, after which there was a moment of silence before a male voice answered. "Yes, what?" sounding mildly annoyed.

"Ah, this is Harry Potter, right?" Blair asked, looking a bit unsure. At the kitchen table, Jim frowned and tilted his head to the side, trying to listen to any possible background noises from the other end of the connection. There weren't any. Aside from Potter's voice, breathing and heartbeat, the connection was almost silent.

"Yes, this is," the man answered, his tone changing a little. "Blair?" he then asked, almost cautiously.

"Yes?"

"Oh, finally," the man on the phone sighed, and Jim could hear how he sat down. "I spent the whole yesterday trying to hunt you down. You changed both address and phone number and when I tried to find you I kept getting some bloke in Florida who sells rental cars and a girl who lives in Texas who has two very important dogs and was very annoyed that I called in middle of a competition." The man stopped promptly. "This is the right Blair Sandburg, right?" he then asked.

Blair was grinning in faint amusement now. "I think so. This the right Harry Potter? The guy who has interesting scars and can dance a mean waltz?"

"Oh, good," Potter answered with a quiet laugh. "At least I now know that you remember me. That helps. A little." He hesitated for a moment before sighing. "Listen, I know this is a bit awkward, not to mention totally random, but you remember what you told me about your thesis plans?" he asked. Jim tilted his head slightly for better reception. Potter's heart was pounding harder now and he sounded like he was holding his breath. "About those… watchmen?"

"Yeah, I remember," Blair agreed, frowning slightly as he glanced at Jim and took in the Sentinel's reaction. "We talked about it over burgers, right? What about it?"

"Did you? I mean, do your thesis on them?" Potter was definitely holding his breath now.

Jim frowned, meeting Blair's eyes steadily. His partner hesitated and then shrugged. "Sorry, man. It didn't pan out. I had to change the subject, I'm doing my thesis on closet societies."

Total silence answered him and Jim for a moment before breath escaped from Potter's lips in harsh, "_Fuck_," which was followed by, "fuck, fuck, _fuck_." He sighed again and Jim could hear him brushing his hand through something, his hair probably. "Okay. _Damn._ Well, can't be helped. Sorry that I bothered you." He sounded not just disappointed, but like the only hope he had had, had just crashed and burned.

"No, no, wait man," Blair said quickly, sitting up a little straighter. He seemed to have detected the level of desperate frustration on the man's voice too, even without the benefit of Sentinel hearing. "Why're you asking? You said you needed my help with something, and it has something to do with this, right?" he was answered by silence, which in Blair's case always just made him talk more. "I might've changed my thesis subject, but I still got some of the research material…"

"Oh. Okay," Potter answered and took a deep breath. "Okay. Right. I can't remember much of what we talked about, but these watchmen of yours, they had, um, sensitive senses, right?"

"Sentinels, right, people with heightened senses," Blair agreed, eying Jim thoughtfully.

"And in modern world that's a bad thing, wasn't it? Because there's so much noise, and chemicals and whatnot?" Potter asked, now sounding hopeful again.

"Yeah, the world's a noisy place. I figured later on that most natural Sentinels might shut themselves down to escape from the noise," Blair said, nodding even though Potter couldn't see him. He gave Jim a slightly apologetic grin when the Sentinel gave a look at him. "Theoretically speaking, of course."

"Shut themselves down," Potter repeated slowly. "Like… black out momentarily, go completely unresponsive, stay that way for anything from seconds to hours…"

Blair sat up straighter while Jim stood up so fast that his chair almost tipped over. They looked at each other with frowns. Only someone who knew a Sentinel could know that. "You found one?" Blair asked to the phone, still looking at his partner. "You know a Sentinel?" There was a silence on the other end and hurriedly the anthropologist explained. "Sentinels, they go into a zone-out state when they concentrate on one sense too much. Like if they see something and it catches their attention completely, they can get lost in what they see. Or hear or smell or touch… It looks like they black out, light's on but nobody's home… that's sort of thing."

"Is, uh… is there anything that can be done about that?" Potter asked carefully. "To help him not… zone-out so much? Or is it going to be like that all the time?"

"Him?" Blair asked. "You do know a Sentinel."

"…yes, I thinks so."

Blair and Jim stared at each other for a moment, first asking silently for permission and latter frowning in answer, unsure. Another Sentinel. _Another Sentinel_. Someone who could understand what Jim was going through - and yet… it also meant another study subject for Blair. Meeting another Sentinel could change everything.

Jim turned his eyes away and made a motion towards Blair, to signal him to do whatever he wanted.

"Listen, man," Blair said to the phone, and Jim could feel his stare in the back of his neck. "The whole Sentinel thing would take way too long to explain on the phone. There's so much I can tell you, that you can use to help this guy. How about we meet somewhere? Maybe for dinner, what do you say?"

"I can't leave him and he's not too well. He's been a bit sick since we came to the country," Potter answered, sighing. "How about you come here? You know where the hotel is, right? Can you meet me here?"

"Yes, of course… You mean, the Sentinel's here?" Blair asked eagerly.

"Yeah. Asleep right now, thank god," the other answered. "When can you meet me?"

Jim and Blair checked the clock in unison and then glanced at each other. They had three hours before they were meant to be at the station. Jim nodded and his partner turned to the phone again. "How about now?" He asked.

"Now's good," Potter answered, sighting heavily with relief. "Blair… thank you."

"This guy means a lot to you, huh?" Blair asked, raising his eyebrows at Jim who stood up in order to get dressed. "You coming?" Blair mouthed silently to the cop, who nodded sternly. No way was he letting Blair meet this Sentinel alone. Or Potter, for that matter.

In the phone, the Englishman laughed. "Yeah, yeah he does. Do you know how long it would take for you to get here? I can put the tea on."

"Tea? Sweet, I'd love some," Blair grinned while Jim headed up the stairs to get a clean pair of pants. "I'll be there in half an hour. Oh, and you don't mind if I bring someone along? He can offer a, uh, second opinion, maybe."

"If he has manners, I don't mind," Potter said. "I'll be waiting."

Jim heard Blair hang just as he found a pair of pants he could wear that day. Downstairs, Blair stretched. "What are the odds of that, man?" he asked and laughed a little breathlessly with wonder. "Another Sentinel. Wow."

"Yeah," Jim muttered while tying his belt on and checking his weapon. With slightly more strength than necessary he pushed the gun to it's holster. "Wow."

It was easier not to think about the whole thing on the way to the hotel, than it had been after listening to Potter's message for the first time. It might've been because Jim did the driving while Blair sorted through some notes about Sentinels, but mostly he guessed it was because it had always been easier for him to wait rather than wonder. Still, despite the lack of assumptions or expectations, he couldn't help but get a little bit more tense with each mile closer to the _Blue Cascade_.

At the hotel, they were expected. The same receptionist who had answered the phone was happy to point them the elevator after Blair had shown her his driver's licence to verify his identity as the person _Mr. Potter_ was waiting for. "This place is really nice," Blair mused as they stood inside and he hit the button for the floor where Potter was staying. He looked over the elevator and frowned. "Harry must've gotten a pretty good job, to stay in this place."

"How so?" Jim asked, folding his hands in order to keep himself from wringing them.

"He was unemployed when I met him. And kind of scruffy looking."

The man who opened the door of four-seven-eight was not all that scurry looking, Jim found when they made it to the said door. He was younger than the Sentinel had assumed, younger than Sandburg was - probably not even twenty yet, actually - but aside from that he fit _Blue Cascade_ perfectly. Rectangular glasses, neatly ironed black trousers and white button up shirt, a dark tie - he looked like a young businessman. If not for the call, what Blair had said and the long black hair tied to the back of Potter's neck, Jim would've presumed him to be some proud rich guy's successful son.

"Wow," Blair said at the first sight of the man. "You grew, man."

"Time does that. Hullo, Blair," the man answered, smile coming to his handsome face. "It's good to see you again." Jim raised his eyebrows at the words. There was surprising amount of warmth in Potter's voice, considering that he and Blair had only known each other for a day.

The anthropologist seemed to share that sentiment, his smile turning a little awkward and flush coming to his face. "Ah… would you take it personally if I sort of forgot you for a while?" he asked shuffling his feet sheepishly. "It's been… years, is all."

"Maybe a little, but it's ok. I figured I wouldn't make much of a mark in the belt of a worldly man," Potter shrugged, turning his eyes to Jim, probably in order to hide the awkward look that had came into them. Suddenly Jim had a horrible, nagging feel in the back of his head about the one day this man and his partner had spent together, but he pushed it aside for now, as the man smiled at him cautiously. "Harry Potter," the Englishman said, offering his hand to Jim. "And you are…?"

"Jim Ellison. I'm a detective with the Cascade PD, Major Crimes division - Blair's my partner," the Sentinel answered while taking the hand, making sure in one sentence that there wouldn't be any confusions about his and Blair's relationship - it happened occasionally, though Blair usually failed to notice it.

"I'm a observer," Blair explained. "It's for my thesis."

"Observer with the police, hm? I can relate to that, I worked as consultant at the Met for a while, few months back," Potter said, nodding in odd appreciation.

"The Met?" Blair asked confusedly.

"The Metropolitan Police Service - they cover the Greater London. You know, the Scotland Yard," Potter explained before seeming to realise that they were standing at the door of his room, and sheepishly stepped aside. "Sorry. Come on in," he said, moving inside. "Do you want anything? I was just about to have some breakfast. And there's tea of course. Don't have any coffee, though, Not much of a coffee drinker."

"Wow. Nice place, man," Blair murmured as they stepped inside. Jim nodded in agreement while pushing his hands into his pockets. The rooms were nice. Wall-to-wall carpets, light, beige coloured walls, fluffy, comfortable looking couches and armchairs in front of a big, welcoming fireplace… the entire place was furbished to comfort. Something about the place was off, though. Tilting his head, the Sentinel tried to get his finger around it, before it hit him. A silence so absolute it made his ears ring.

The entire place was soundproof. Once the door closed behind them, he couldn't hear anything from the outside. No wind, no birds, no traffic, nothing. He couldn't even hear other residents of the hotel, not even when he tried to dial up his hearing.

"It should be, after what I paid for it," Potter said, crouching by the sitting room table to gather some papers and what looked like files into a folder, which he closed and carried with him towards the kitchen. "So, tea?"

"I could drink a cup, yeah," Blair agreed, following the man and leaving Jim to his wake. The Sentinel lingered back a little and took a deep breath. The place wasn't only soundproof, but it was sanitized. The carpet was made from natural materials, the fireplace was almost sterile… no smells at all in the entire room, aside from Potter's natural scents and pheromones, and even those were dampened by scentless soaps and shampoos.

No sounds, no scents and the apartment was by the look of it furbished with all natural materials. On top of that, the décor of the house was neutral and soothing - and the windows were all covered with blinders and neutrally coloured curtains. That covered four senses, everything but taste. For a moment Jim wondered how Potter had found a place like this, before he realised something else. The furniture were all in pristine condition, and the carpeting was new. The place wasn't just Sentinel-friendly, but it had been made so very recently.

"I appreciate you coming like this, despite the fact that it's probably pretty sudden," Potter was saying when Jim ventured to the kitchen - which followed the Sentinel-friendly theme. "And the fact that you barely remember me."

"Oh, I remember you now, I just… well, my twentieth turned into something like my fortieth in the last two years, and…" Blair scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm such a bastard, aren't I?"

"It's alright, never mind that," Potter chuckled, carrying a tray to the kitchen table and motioning Blair and Jim sit down. "Sugar, honey, milk, cream?" he asked while turning to the kitchen cupboards. "I got some lemon too if you want it..."

"I take plain, thanks," Blair said while sitting down, still looking a bit awkward.

"And I don't," Jim answered, shaking his head and pushing the new realisation about Blair aside for later study. Actually, it was probably better to push the whole subject aside, considering how awkward it was making both Blair and Potter. "So. This Sentinel friend of yours?" he asked, nudging Blair's side to make him do what he always did best.

"Oh yeah! He's here, right?" Blair asked, bouncing a little where he sat.

"Still asleep," Potter answered while taking the third cup from the table and sitting down. "He needs the rest after the day he had yesterday and I want to know more about this sentinel thing before I wake him up," he shrugged while starting to fix himself a cup.

"Well… I got load to tell you. I don't even know where to start," Blair said, pushing his hair back and behind his ear before taking a cup for himself. Then the anthropologist did that not-quite-taking-a-deep-breath which always heralded a long and lengthy explanation. "I'm not sure if I told you, but Sentinels were first recorded by Sir Richard Burton…" and he was off in the now familiar lecture of tribal watchmen who patrolled the borders and looked after the tribe's well being. Jim, knowing the lecture by heart now, tuned most of it and concentrated onto Potter, who listened without saying much, only nodding here and there before finally asking about the senses.

"Well, obviously they're heightened. There are lot of people with one or two heightened senses, that aren't Sentinels - I got lot of records them, both from people who live now and people who already passed away. Oh, and I got even more rumours and old stories about people who got better sight or hearing and so forth than most people do," Blair said, nodding. "Sentinels, though, they got all five sort of like supercharged. They can see further than people can with binoculars, smell things that only best dogs could smell - hear things half a mile away… stuff like that. Probably even further with training."

Potter nodded, eying his tea cup before taking a sip. "That sounds about right," he murmured. "And the senses make them… make certain materials harmful to them?" he asked.

Blair avoided looking at Jim pretty well as he answered. "Yeah. A Sentinel wouldn't be able to wear certain materials that would irritate the skin, give them rash and stuff like that. Certain soaps and lotions and such could cause a similar reaction. And of course, they'd probably be sensitive to drugs and medicine. Some would work too efficiently, others would have horrible side effects… stuff like that."

The black haired man nodded seriously, and Jim could almost hear him jotting down mental notes. "And the black outs?" Potter asked, now even more grave than before.

"Yeah, the zone-outs. Happen when a Sentinel concentrates on one sense too much," the anthropologist nodded. "I guess it wouldn't be much of a problem in pre-civilised cultures, like tribes that live in jungles and such, but in modern world… lot of bright things, colours and lights, and even more noise. A modern city is like a Sentinel-hell, I bet."

Jim rolled his eyes. It could be - malls for one were pretty close to hell to him these days - but that had been in the beginning, before he had gotten some control. Now he could just dial it all down and that was usually enough to make him able to handle it…

Potter frowned. "And there's nothing that can be done about that?" he asked worriedly. "He's never going to be able to handle the modern world, never can go to big cities…?"

"No, no, of course he can, man, of course. He just needs to learn control," Blair assured hurriedly. "A Sentinel can learn to dial the senses down, otherwise it wouldn't make much sense. I mean, a jungle can be a noisy place too. It wouldn't make much sense for certain tribes to have put these people into these stations if the environment could just incapacitate them like zone-outs can. Watchman can be vital to a tribe's survival, that's not position you give to someone easily incapacitated."

Blair made a haphazard motion with his hand. "And most Sentinels in these tribes usually had a partner, someone to watch their back while they did their thing and help them out from zone-outs and such." He said, again studiously avoiding looking at Jim. "Your Sentinel friend can learn to live in modern world, he just needs to learn how to control the senses. And it helps if he doesn't live alone and so forth, and has someone who knows about this stuff to watch his back."

"Well, that good, seeing that he lives with me most of the time," Potter murmured, frowning. "How hard it is to learn how to control the senses?"

"Well… I don't really know." Now Blair did glance at Jim, who shrugged in answer. Blair sighed, and turned to Potter again. "There are still lot of things I haven't figured out. Learning how to dial the senses down, that probably doesn't take more than a week to learn how to do instinctively, but the other stuff… controlling the senses themselves, that takes months. Maybe years. Takes lot of mental discipline too."

The black haired man eyed Blair seriously over his glasses before sighing. "I was afraid of that," he murmured, looking away with a worried look about his bright green eyes.

"It's totally worth it, though, man," Blair hurriedly assured. "A Sentinel is _amazing_, the things they can do when they're in complete control! You wouldn't even believe. A guy like that is like, well, like a human laboratory, can figure out stuff on one standing that would take days for machines to do. And imagine, someone like that as a fire fighter or in search and rescue…"

"Or as a law enforcement officer," Potter mused, glancing at Jim who met his eyes with slightly narrowed look. The younger man smiled in answer and drained the last of his tea. "Well, that's getting a bit ahead, worrying about occupations," he said while standing up. "Wait a moment and I'll get him. It's about time he had something to eat anyway - that is if he can keep it down…"

"We're not going anywhere, man," Blair assured and watched as Potter walked away. Then, casting a sideways glance at Jim, he leaned back. "Phew," he murmured a little embarrassedly, looking like he thought he ought to explain but didn't know where to start. "This is a little awkward."

"Never mind that, Chief. It's none of my business," Jim answered, trying to follow Potter with his hearing. Once the man had closed the kitchen door behind him, all the sound had been blocked as well. The Sentinel shook his head. "This place is incredible," he murmured.

"What do you mean, man?"

"Every room here is sound proof," the cop answered, tilting his head. "And cleaned up really well. On top of that, all the furniture…"

Blair looked around as he trailed away and nodded in understanding. Even in kitchen everything was Sentinel-friendly. "It's kind of like being at home, huh?" he asked, standing up.

"Kind of," Jim agreed. The loft was equally Sentinel-friendly for obvious reasons, except for the fact that despite his best efforts Jim had never been able to make it soundproof. That was what ear-plugs were for, though. "He's gone the long way for this guy, Potter that is."

Blair nodded, apparently having noticed the same things Jim had - the newness of the furniture and carpeting. This wasn't a hotel room for normal guests - not even one found after lot of research. This was hotel room that had been modified on the request of a very well paying client. "Yeah," the anthropologist murmured. "Long way."

Potter took his sweet time, and the complete silence surrounding them kept Jim from even hearing what was keeping him for so long. But judging by what Potter had said about the Sentinel - the bad reaction to travelling, inability to keep down food and need of sleep - it wasn't hard to deduct what was keeping them. Jim had to wonder about their travelling methods, though - and just how bad the other Sentinel's control was, when travelling had sent him into this sort of condition.

It all made sense when Potter finally returned - carrying a sleepy little boy in his arms. "Teddy," Potter smiled to the boy who was yawning and rubbing his eyes, light brown hair sticking to every direction. "This is Blair and Jim. They're going to help us. Can you say hello to them?"

"E'lo," the little boy, only dressed in a diaper and odd looking necklace, mumbled before turning and wrapping his arms around Potter's neck and, by the sound of it, blowing a raspberry against the man's shoulder.

"Sorry about that," Potter laughed while carrying the kid into the kitchen and to the counter where he started, with one hand, to fix the boy a cup of cacao. "Teddy's a bit shy."

"He's… the Sentinel?" Blair asked, sharing a look with Jim who was frowning now. It was one thing to be Sentinel as an adult, but a child - one so young at that… The anthropologist at his side coughed awkwardly. "How did you… I mean, how do you know?"

Potter sighed. "It's a myriad of things, really. Ever since birth he's been overly sensitive to clothes and such, though it wasn't bad until he was about six months old," he said while putting a cup of milk into the microwave. "That was when the black outs started too. We thought he had some sort of defect or illness - something he inherited from his mother. Andy, Teddy's grandmother, told me that she, Teddy's mum that is, had same thing when she was a child. Black outs, sensitivities… apparently Nympha complained about noises and things tasting funny, things too far away for others to see - and pains and such… stuff no one could explain. Just like Teddy does now."

He paused to take the cup from the microwave and to stir the cacao into it. Then he carried his son to the table, sitting down across Blair and settling the boy to his lap, where the kid cosily leaned back while tacking the task of draining his sweet drink.

"And… you remembered what I told you about Sentinels?" Blair asked while Jim leaned back where he sat, folding his arms. A toddler Sentinel. What had he been thinking, being nervous about this? Then the cop winced internally at the concept of having hyperactive senses at such young age. Toddlers weren't exactly known for restraint and control - and if the first days had been hard on him, who was an adult man…

Potter smiled faintly. "I didn't really make the connection before Teddy learned to speak, even then I was a bit sceptical. He'd babble about birds and insects and flower smells and such… when there was no evidence of them. I thought if was a coincidence, what was happening with Teddy and what you told me," the man smiled briefly. "You know, mind making desperate connections in order to come up with solution. I didn't really listen, not until I got my hands on a… well, some equipment that made me able to hear more than normally. He could hear a bird's nest in the rafters, four floors up…" the man shook his head in amazement.

"And then you… came here, asking for my help?" Blair asked quietly.

"Well, not immediately. I tried to figure it out on my own at first, tried researching. But by that time I had forgotten most what you said, I couldn't even remember what they were called. Sentinels…." Potter shook his head slightly. "In the end I couldn't find anything. And the older Teddy grew, the more he blacked out…" the young man grimaced, looking down to the kid who was now happily smacking his mouth, which was framed by hot chocolate. "Two months ago, Teddy blacked out while coming down the stairs," he whispered. "He only fell four steps, but it could've been worse, much worse. I live in a house with lot of staircases. I knew then I needed to do something. The next time, he might've been in the upper end of the steps…"

There was a moment of silence, only broken by sound of Teddy draining last of his cacao noisily. Sitting there, he looked like a normal little kid, but the longer Jim looked at him and the way Potter was holding him, the clearer it became. The diaper the boy was wearing - it was a cloth one, not a disposable most people used. The lack of clothes, and the way the boy was wiggling slightly against potter's chest, like being tickled. The way the boy was licking his lips, studious and serious like tasting something really special in the remains of his cacao…

Then the kid looked, and Jim felt an odd sensation of being x-rayed. The kid had light brown, almost amber-shaded eyes and for one, odd moment Jim got the feeling like the boy could see inside his skin. Moment later he shook the feeling away before frowning at the concept that if not inside his skin, then the kid could maybe see inside his _pores_ if nothing else. Jim could too, except most times he preferred not to.

He was almost grateful when Potter called for the boy's attention and broke the unnerving eye contact. "Do you think you could eat something, kiddo?" the young man asked softly, brushing the boy's hair back gently. "Maybe some cereal, what do you say?"

The boy frowned, and shook his head before making a sound which sounded vaguely like "Donn," before starting to wiggle out of Potter's grasp. "N go pay," the boy added once he managed to free himself. "Ge mooy." The boy finished while Jim tried to decipher the toddler speak.

"Right. Um, how about we move to the living room?" Potter asked with a slight smile while. "More space for Teddy to play."

"Yeah, sure," Blair agreed immediately and somewhat awkwardly he and Jim stood up while Potter headed out of the kitchen after the kid. The young man didn't immediately head to the living room, though, leaving Jim and Blair to find places to sit while he got a box full of toys, with Teddy following closely behind with a rather ragged looking stuffed dog. While Jim and Blair watched, Potter spread the many toys across the expensive looking carpeting.

"So," Blair said while potter made himself comfortable on the floor with his son. "He has at least heightened sense of sound and sight, and suffers from zone outs. How about sensory spikes?" he asked, before elaborating. "That would be when one or more senses turn up so high that they start causing actual physical pain."

"Yeah, he has those," Potter agreed, a slightly pained frown about his face even as he helped the toddler arrange some of the toys into somewhat neat order. "Not very often, thank heavens, but sometimes… yeah. And they can be pretty bad too."

Blair nodded while Jim watched the kid thoughtfully. He hadn't been around that many kids, but there was really something special about Teddy. He didn't even move like kids probably did - no, he was careful. Didn't move hastily, didn't drag his knees as he crawled behind a toy car. He moved rather like… like a clumsy cat, actually. Or a kitten just learning to walk.

"And you said his mother had same thing when she was kid?" the anthropologist asked.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm not sure, of course, but I figure that she was the same as he is, but it got too much for her and she, well, suppressed it," Potter answered, leaning back against one of the armchairs. "Suppressed it so tightly that her sense of balance suffered. She was a clumsy woman, could trip on a solid, straight ground with no reason at all…"

Jim glanced at the man, taking in the posture, the slight glance to left, the twitch of his hands… Potter was thinking something he wasn't saying, something he wouldn't say. If not for the steady beat of his heart, Jim would've said the man was lying about something.

"Where is she now?" Blair asked, leaning forward a little. "Suppressed Sentinels can get their senses back, you know. They just need a right trigger for it. Time in solitude…"

Potter smiled sadly and shook his head. "It wouldn't make much a difference. Nymphadora is dead," he said. "She died over two years ago - just few months before we met, actually."

Jim raised his eyebrows at that and glanced at his partner, who seemed to have been stuck speechless. Potter took in their expressions before chuckling softly. "It's not what you think," he said. "Teddy is my adopted son. I share custody with Teddy's grandmother, though mostly he lives with me."

"Oh," Blair murmured, looking a little embarrassed. "Um. Well…" he trailed away for a moment before looking up again. "Okay. I think I need to hear and see a little bit more before I can tell for sure if Teddy really is a Sentinel or not. It sounds like he is, man, but I want to be sure before I go suggesting stuff that might never work. I could totally help you get started though. I got some research material which might, you know, shed some light."

"I'd appreciate that," Potter nodded. "I can pay for it," he added, absently rubbing his kid's back while Teddy made car-like noises at one of his toys.

"Well, let's not talk about that before I can tell for sure if I can help you at all," Blair said, glancing at Jim. "How about you give me a day to get some stuff together that might help you and Teddy and we meet again?"

"That could work," Potter nodded. "I got two weeks before I need to head back to Britain anyhow, so I have the time. Though the faster I can figure out how to help Teddy, the better."

"Of course," Blair agreed and stood up, Jim following his lead. "So, I'll… call you once I got the stuff ready?"

Potter nodded in appreciation, standing up as well. "I really appreciate it," he said, glancing between Bair and Jim awkwardly, before offering his hand for Blair. "Thank you, again,"

"Hey, a chance to help a real living Sentinel. I'm not gonna pass this by," Blair assured with a grin and shook the hand firmly. "I'm happy to do it."

"That's good to hear, I guess," Potter nodded, before shaking hands with Jim as well, though it made Jim feel a bit odd. He hadn't contributed much to the meeting, after all. "Thanks," Potter said again before walking them to the door. "To both of you."

With few more, increasingly awkward words of gratitude and fare well, Jim and Blair left. They remained quiet on their way to the elevator, until finally Blair seemed to get too much of it, and took a deep breath. "So? What do you think, man?" he asked. "A kid as a Sentinel? Some of my theories back it up, you know, it being genetic all that, especially if Teddy's mom was one too, but… all the texts I read said that it's activated by prolonged time in solitude…"

"Well… Potter wasn't lying," Jim answered thoughtfully, folding his arms. "He wasn't telling everything, but he wasn't lying."

xx

This is actually the second chapter of the story, but as the first chapter is mostly just sex and this works just as well without it, sort of, I figured I could go ahead and post this without posting the first one. The first chapter is in my yahoo group, though, so if you're interested in that, go check out my home page. Not much to say about this one, I'm just feeling very Sentinel nostalgic at the moment.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	27. Long live the city, expanded

Warnings; none, except for some OOCness and screwy explanations. Harry Potter x Stargate Atlantis crossover

**Long live the city**

Harry found himself mesmerised by the view in front of him, just outside the window. It was magnificent, unlike anything he had ever seen. A city silently sitting in the bottom of what seemed to be an ocean, with water still and heavily present just outside the window's glass and over every tall spire of the city. He couldn't count the spires, but he was sure there were dozens of then and that there were more than he could see, further into the dark blue shadows of the ocean floor.

"Hey, you," Harry was startled out of his reverie by a man in dark blue uniform, wearing a black vest. He was dark skinned and surprisingly young, holding onto a heavy muggle weapon a little too tightly for the casual look on his face to be real. "Which way did the search team go?" the man asked, glancing left to Harry, where the corridor forked.

"That way," Harry said instinctively, pointing to the right side fork, before turning back to stare out of the window in amazement. He could feel the other man's eyes in the back of his head, before the man spoke again.

"Shouldn't you be doing something?" he asked. "You know, other than standing around?"

Harry nodded absently and reluctantly stepped back and away from the window, while the dark skinned man, a soldier, jogged away and to the right side fork on the corridor. For a while the wizard stared after him, before turning back to the window and continuing to stare.

He was fairly certain there was nowhere he was supposed to be, because he didn't know where he even was, because the view outside the window was all he knew. He stared at the impossible ocean view for a long while, until it was time to go.

Few minutes later Lieutenant Ford found the search team, not knowing that if he had continued straight ahead, he would've triggered a system that, unable to stand the strain of being active after ten thousand years, would've malfunctioned and flooded the entire level.

x

Harry walked absently across a corridor, not all that different from the one where he had seen the inside ocean view - though this one lacked the windows. He was still mesmerised by his surroundings, by the artistically made pillars and the cryptic walls and the peculiar aquarium parts in the walls that bubbled and showered their surroundings with eerie blue light. The place, even for a wizard, was absolutely magical.

Then he heard the choked sobs and turned his eyes to the woman up ahead, who was hurriedly trying to gather various gadgets back into a suitcase, that had apparently fallen over. She wasn't getting much work done, however, because of the sobs that shook her, making her hands shake and drop what she was trying to gather up, scattering the various items all across the floor.

Harry blinked, before jogging to her, crouching beside her, and quickly starting to gather the odd items she had scattered.

"Oh!" the woman said, startled, looking up to him. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean - I'm going to gather these - please, you don't need to bother -" she babbled in accented voice while simultaneously trying to wipe her tears away, gather the items, and push Harry away. "Please, you probably have work to do, I can do this…"

"It's okay, let me…" Harry answered shaking his head, shifting to his knees and reaching for the further most items, depositing them to the open suitcase - pretending not to notice how the woman wiped her face. She sniffled, then let out a quivery sigh. "I'm sorry, it's just. I can't swim, and I'm a bit claustrophobic, and - and, really, I'm not normally like this, but Doctor McKay said that the shield's failing, and I - I…"

Harry nodded, more absently than with any understanding, and finished her packing for her, closing the suitcase, and standing up. Sniffling, the woman sat up again, taking the suitcase, and pulling up a brave face. "I'm sorry," she said again, nodding and smiling a quivering smile. "Thanks."

"It's okay," he repeated and smiled back. "Hang in there."

She nodded and Harry watched as she continued along the corridor, before noticing another item that had been kicked off too far, and which had ended up half hidden behind a pillar. Blinking, he picked it up and looked at it. It was, as far as he understood muggle technology, some sort of adapter. The wire had broken a little near the bulky adapter itself, probably when it had fallen.

For a moment he considered calling the woman back, but decided against it. Instead, he put the adapter into his pocket, and continued along the corridor.

If Doctor Miko had found it, she would've taken it with her and few hours later, she would've attempted to hook it into the power grid, causing a short that would've proven fatal to her.

x

He stopped by a door, looking it up and down until it hissed softly and opened, revealing a darkened room beyond. Curious, Harry stepped forward and then blinked sharply as the lights turned on seemingly by themselves, first lighting odd consoles that looked little like musical instruments, then the screens above them, and finally the ceiling and the walls. The room was interesting in odd, futuristic and yet artistic way, and completely unlike anything he had seen before, so while trying to take it all in, he stepped inside, glancing behind him as the door automatically closed.

He circled the room absently, taking in the odd consoles and their glass like keys, before stopped beside one in the side, running his hand over the keys until the screen above changed. Harry looked up to it, considering the flickering symbols and flashing lights, before pressing few keys almost inattentively, keeping his eyes on the screen and watching it as the text shifted and changed. As his fingers seemed to know what they were doing, he let them work until the flickering text on the screen seemed right, and his fingers stopped.

Elsewhere, power was routed around a damaged conduit, safely reaching it's destination without a hitch.

x

Harry didn't get time to marvel the odd docking station and the cylinder ships there, before his feet took him to a glowing light-switch type of thing, and his hands moved to detach the cover. On the other side of the room, two men were marvelling the ships too, one of them wondering about how they could be used from under water. Harry, while listening them, watched as his hands worked with odd crystal disk inside the panel he had removed, switching places, and turning them around.

Unknowingly he locked the roof in place, making it impossible for anyone to open it from the bay - saving the ships and the people marvelling them from the flood they would've caused ten minutes later if he hadn't been there.

x

Harry was working with some torn cable-type of things that stick out a damaged part of the wall, when the city lurched slightly beneath his feet. He looked down, fascinated - because the lurch didn't even _happen_, the city hadn't as much as shivered, it had been more of a mental experience. Like door had been opened. Curious, he looked up and felt oddly, distantly aware that the population of the city had gone down by a dozen.

He left the cables, because they weren't as important now, and suddenly he wasn't in the shadowed corridor anymore, but in a room. His feet took him automatically to a console, his fingers reaching to work without his conscious approval, hurriedly flying across the cool crystal keys. He watched curiously as they worked, vaguely wondering if seeing someone play piano up close looked like this, but not really minding.

Else where security protocols changed and shifted - and the ten thousand year old lock up of the Stargate released, ready for the people who had left to come back home again.

x

There was a sense of urgency now, more so than before, as Harry found himself in this room and that, working on this console, repairing this part of the wall, and meeting people in the corridors to direct them elsewhere. He started to feel vague sense of awareness about what he was doing, but it was still detached feeling - like he was watching someone else work, rather than himself. His hands seem to belong to another consciousness entirely, as they reroute power, and shut down non-critical systems, repair damaged conduits and sacrifice sections of the city to preserve those with life in them.

He couldn't make himself feel worried, though, because it was important work and someone had to do it. Even though he had no idea why it was _him_ specifically doing it or how he had gotten there in the first place, it is not as urgent as keeping the people in the city _alive_.

He coaxed the consoles and the screens, trying to draw out the dwindling power supply as far as it could go, trying to protect the people, trying to keep them all safe, but it was draining faster than he could preserve it. He circled from this room to that until finally his fingers twitch, not knowing what else to do, what else to try. Power is draining out, and even the other consciousness controlling him had no way to repair that.

x

Harry stood alone in the edge of the control room, watching the other people. He had been able to feel them before - instinctively he had known they were there. But he hadn't yet seen so many of them in one place. Soldiers he could pick out easily - they stood straight, they carried weapons, they spoke little but with determination. He could also tell them apart from the rest - because the others were working, they were animate, worried and speaking fast as they still worked on what Harry had been attending to - saving power.

He didn't feel the urge to do that anymore, so he was somewhat certain that there was nothing else to be done. Still, when a man approached him with every intention of walking past him, he shook his head and held his hand up to stop him. "That way's been declared unsafe," he said calmly. "The staircase is unstable."

"Ah, great," the man muttered irritably, fingering his hand held computer pad. "I used that staircase just half an hour ago! Okay, fine, which way should I go?"

Harry pointed, and then watched as the man headed to the other direction, muttering irritably. Folding his arms, Harry glanced over his shoulder to the corridor behind him. He was fairly certain that the staircase was safe - all metal structures in the city had been made to last for eons - but the mechanism controlling the window shutters was another thing.

Though how much it mattered now, with the power fading away, he didn't know. The power source of the city was almost depleted, and when it would go, the city shield would fail and there would be nothing to stand in the way of the flooding that would follow.

He sighed, closing his eyes - when the city around him shuddered slightly, almost like with surprise.

x

He was elsewhere before the shuddering ended - or before it had even begun fully. He was in the power control room, he knew, and as he reached for the consoles he already knew what he would be trying to do - collapse the shield around the central tower, to try and preserve as many lives as possible. He was just about to do that, when the text in the crystal screen made his fingers hesitate.

Someone, he knew, had changed the security protocols.

His fingers withdrew completely as his gaze flitted across the screen, taking in the writing, the emergency program that, buried and hidden beneath layers and layers of other protocols, had been previously invisible to his odd technological sixth sense. Now it was blaring through the screens, taking over every system, over riding every other procedure - and it was doing it beautifully. Harry gasped with wonder, as the city quivered and begun to comply to the demands of the secret failsafe.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the opening of the Stargate, the return of the people - the arrival of more. In tune with the city around him, he saw them, felt their heart beats, logged their life signatures within himself, even as the city itself released and begun pushing upwards. Somewhere, people were panicking and Harry felt the urge to be there, to soothe them, to do his _duty_ and keep them safe and healthy and happy, but the city was _moving_ and he needed to concentrate to that, to keeping it level - making sure nothing would go wrong.

Ten thousand years ago, a brilliant scientist named Janus had created the failsafe program, intending to lift the city safely to the surface in case power failed, to save the people of a woman who had came from the future. He had been incredible, creating the program from nothing in no time at all, making it as perfect as he could - anticipating lot of problems and counteracting them. But he hadn't taken into count the rapid loss of power, and so one of the engines pushing the city up faltered, and the city tilted just a little to the side.

Harry frowned, and then he was there - in the city's structure, in it's bones, in it's feet, in the engines - even while standing still, standing next to the power control console. He was in the programming, overriding and re-routing, switching systems on and off, shifting the hundreds of invisible gears and firing this engine out of sequence with that, compensating for the failure, manoeuvring the city level.

It was exhausting - distantly he knew; he was only meant for _manual input_, this type of interwoven interaction wasn't meant to be. It tired him, making him strain as if he was trying to levitate a boulder out from bottom of a lake, which, in a way, he was. But someone had to do it.

Harry was blind and deaf with his sense of touch all but gone by the time the city reached the surface. The systems of the city whirred and whooshed around him like waves of the ocean, as failsafe receded, relinquishing it's overwhelming control and letting all other system return to the normal. Harry receded as well, blinking his unseeing eyes, reaching to take support from the console, before his power failed too, and he fell to his knees and then to darkness.

x

When he came to, he knew instantly that about two and half hour had gone by, and that Atlantis power was being supplied by new type of power source - weaker, but sufficient to make the city function. Harry wondered about that - about knowing about the time and the difference between two types of energy, about knowing the city's name - and that, had there been no power afterwards, Harry himself wouldn't have woken up.

As he found himself standing on a dark corridor, he spent a moment feeling the city's gratitude towards it's new people - they couldn't fix the problem, couldn't supply the city with enough power for optimal function, but they were doing the best they could. And though it should've really worried him that his own existence now seemed somehow dependant on how much power Atlantis had, it didn't - it made perfect sense, in odd, distant logic he couldn't quite understand but trusted nonetheless.

But there was more work to be done, especially now, especially with new people in the city. He looked down and around and then, noticing the wall with it's broken panel and torn chords he had been working with before, he walked forward and got back to work.

Once repaired, the power couplings he worked on would save the city a week's worth of energy that would've otherwise leaked and gone to waste.

x

It was only matter of time before he was noticed, he had known that. Harry could fell the others, the scientists, burrowing their way into the energy systems and power control in order to try and make the city function the best they could with the little power they had. He could feel how one of the went through the reports of Harry's actions - logged and time stamped automatically in his own subroutines, which before now he had been only dimly aware he even had.

Harry kept an eye on him, in a sense, even while working on another console in another end of the city, hurriedly pumping out the water that had penetrated the lower levels so that he could get there easier and begin repairs. He was watching the scientists through the city's sensors, keeping track of his heart beat and perspiration levels, tracking his process as he read more, as his heart begun speed up. The man was now half way through the reports of the fifty eight repair and cautionary actions Harry had already taken in the last eight or so hours, reading through one about rerouting power.

The water level was receding in the lower levels now and the city's life support pumped air in to the formerly flooded areas - in twenty four minutes, it would be ready for Harry. In the control room the scientist had jumped up and was now hurrying towards another man. While Harry spent time repairing another system - function connected to the life-support, vital and dangerous and on the break of releasing lethal gasses to the city's ventilation system - the two men in the control room looked through the computer logs, checked other systems, tracked down Harry's hand prints in the functions of Atlantis, learned that he was there.

Harry half wished he had the time to go there and explain, but there was so much work to be done. Once he was done, he left the station where he had worked on the life support, and headed elsewhere - there was another damaged power conduit he needed to look into - while up in the control room people became aware of him. First the scientists, then the woman with blue and red jacket who seemed to be in charge, then others. Harry was already elbow deep in a tray of power crystals, swapping them and removing the damaged ones, when she organised a search party - both for him, and for her people who were lost off world.

While one of the ships in the bay was activated and the gate was opened, handful of soldiers headed elsewhere, into the city. Guided by the directions of the scientist who had discovered Harry in the programming and who was now trying to track him by his results because unlike him they couldn't track the problems in Atlantis, they begun their search for him.

The scientist was the first to see the fruits of Harry's labour as power was directed elsewhere, and away from the laboratories where it would've gone to waste.

x

It took them hours to find him, and only that long because they were lucky. The formerly flooded areas were in need of extensive repair and clean up, so he had to spend long while there, and this console or that, fixing this part of the wall and that, working with these conduits and those cables. He was running out of options about how to tend to the leak in the water filtration system - it had been damaged badly over the thousands of years, and there were no spare parts to repair it - when the soldiers came.

"Freeze!" said a dark skinned man with weapon in his hands, who was at the lead of the party. A muggle soldier. "Put your hands into the air and step away from the wall."

Harry stopped his work and glanced over his shoulder at the soldier and the others, all whom were aiming their weapons at him, all whom seemed confused. He tilted his head slightly, as one of the spoke into a communication device attached to his ear. Atlantis's communication system quickly tapped into the channel, and Harry could hear, "…Doctor McKay, it's not a robot or a droid - it's a human, a man!" the soldier was saying. "He's even wearing a science officer's uniform, with United Kingdom flag!"

To which the scientist in the control room said. "What, _really_? Okay, that's not possible, it's just, I'm not even reading any life sings except for the search party - and why UK?"

Ah, Harry thought, nodding to himself. They had only seen the results of his work, they had thought he was part of Atlantis, some sort of repair machine. It made sense.

"Put your hands into the air and step away from the wall!" the first man repeated, holding his weapon up a little higher. "I warn you, I'm not going to hesitate if I have to shoot you."

Harry blinked, and then raised his hand. When he lowered it, the electromagnetic panels in the floor activated, and the weapons, mostly made of metal, were immediately drawn to the floor, many of them slipping from their wielders' hands and holsters, while those who fought to keep their grip on theirs were forced to lower their weapons, and then fall to their knees while fighting the pull of artificial gravity.

"There crystals are pretty important to the water filtration system - the one that supplies the city with drinkable water," Harry said, as the leader of the soldiers fought to keep his weapon level. "If you go off shooting here, you might break them and then I can't repair them; there are no replacements."

He turned back to the crystal tray, and continued working. "You should leave - the life support barely works here," he added, while pulling out a burned crystal and spreading the work it had been doing between the others. "It's not safe yet."

Behind him, the leader gave up with his weapon, letting it drop to the floor and standing up - then he was rushing at Harry's back, putting his hands around him and trying to force him away from the consoles. Harry frowned, but didn't stop, as he was almost finished - and somewhere on the upper levels someone was already testing the water systems, making the matter of fixing them more urgent - and so the soldier's hands went right through him.

"Doctor McKay! It's a hologram of some sort!" the leader snapped to his ear piece. "My hands went right through!"

"Wait, if it's a hologram, how can it move the crystals?" another soldier asked.

"I just do," Harry answered, finishing his work and pushing the panel back into the wall. For a moment he listened to the hum of machinery, before nodding with satisfaction. Then he turned to the soldiers. "Sorry. I need to go," he said apologetically, and before they could say or do anything, he was already elsewhere.

Distantly he could hear how the scientist, Doctor McKay, read out loud from the latest report. The water system was now pumping the unclean water out, and the purification system was cleaning the tanks, ejecting the ten thousand year's worth of residue. In ten minutes, the city's water would be perfectly clean again and safe for drinking

x

It took them another half an hour to catch up with him, in which time he had also tended to the water piping problem that would've supplied the primary water systems only with water of certain temperature and another piping issue that would've ended up with flooded living quarters in two week's time. He was working on the central heating - which was partially regulated by the water system - when the soldiers came upon him again - this time without weapons.

Before any of them could say anything, though, Doctor McKay was speaking to them through their communications system. "Ask him what he's doing - and for cry's sake, don't go on threatening the program that's _fixing the city_! You guys have any idea how bad it would've been if we had actually _drank_ that water _before_ he fixed the system?"

Harry smiled slightly at that. It wasn't in him to ask for congratulations or thanks, but felt… nice to be appreciated. "Tell Doctor McKay that I am working with heating," he said over his shoulder. "There is a problem with the thermostat, sort of."

"You can hear our communication?" the man at the lead asked, narrowing his eyes.

"More or less," Harry nodded, connecting couple of crystals before pulling out a crystal stylus and activating secondary programs in one of the crystals.

There was a short science, before Doctor McKay snapped at them to talk, before Harry had to move on again. One of the soldiers in the back coughed. "So, who are you?"

"What are you?" the leader added with a slight snap, before Harry managed to answer.

The wizard frowned at that, glancing at them. "My name is Harry," he said, and considered the second question. "I'm not… entirely sure about the other thing but I suppose saying that I'm Atlantis's repair man wouldn't too far off the mark," he said, shrugging his shoulders and turning to the crystals again.

"Repair man?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "That and security guard. I fix problems and I stop you people from going into wrong places or activating the wrong systems."

"Really? Why?" the leader asked, his hands squeezed into fists.

"For your protection," Harry sighed, leaning back and looking up along the crystals of the tray. "This place has been abandoned for a long while. System have failed or became dysfunctional. On the surface it's not that bad for you, but in the bottom you could've triggered a flooding many times."

"When Atlantis rose to the surface, was that you?" one of the soldiers asked, a little wide eyed.

"No. A scientist named Janus created the failsafe program ten thousand years ago - it activated on it's own when power failed. I steered the city, though - one of the engines had a system malfunction and it didn't ignite properly, so the city wobbled," Harry said and then reached for another crystal, turning it around. He listened to the hum of machines for a moment, before frowning and going back to work.

"Ask him - as him if he could use a head set?" Harry could head McKay speaking to one of the soldiers. "If he can, give him one, I want to talk with him."

"Doctor McKay -" the soldier in lead started, but stopped as Harry held out his hand to accept the offer. "Mister… _Harry_," the soldier started again, now frowning at him. "I really don't think -"

"I could speak with Doctor McKay through the city's communication system, but would maybe be a little over blown," Harry said a little flatly. "Or I could have Atlantis hack your communication system to grant me access. Trust me, this is easier."

The soldier narrowed his eyes again, but McKay was snorting on the other end, asking them what, exactly, could Harry do with a headset? It wasn't like it was a lethal weapon - and seriously, he already had better access to the city than any of them had, so if he really wanted to do anything, he certainly wouldn't need a _headset_ to do it. Finally, the soldier in lead rolled his eyes, and made motion at one of the others, making one of them hand over their earpiece.

"Thank you," Harry said, and gingerly hooked the set around his left ear. "Alright, how do I use this thing?" he muttered, fingering the set curiously because Atlantis hadn't fashioned the little machine and thus couldn't give him the instructions.

"There are buttons in the earpiece, you switch channels from them," Doctor McKay spoke to his ear. "And you seem to be using it just fine."

"Okay then," Harry agreed, testing the channels and then nodding with satisfaction. Returning the channel to the one with McKay on it, he turned back to the crystals, even while the sensors keyed into him studied the headset and the radio channels it could access a little more, and then integrated it all into him for later use. "So, you wanted to talk with me?"

"Yes. So, you're some sort of repair hologram, right? Security protocol our arrival triggered?" the man asked, and Harry could both hear and see and sense how he moved to one of the consoles, trying to track Harry down again.

"Maybe, I don't know," Harry answered, connecting few more crystals and listening. No, the pitch of the machinery was still wrong. There was problem somewhere else. "Excuse me, I will take over the power and water distribution system for a moment - there is a system failure somewhere, I need to rack it down," he said to the microphone, and then did just that, listening to McKay let out a indignant squeak at the other end.

"What, that's you - you're the one that keeps flicking the consoles off and on here?" McKay asked.

"It's the quickest way to track down problems," Harry agreed, while crystal tray into the wall, and turning to the soldiers. "I need to go, again," he said apologetically and then he was elsewhere, in front of still slightly wet wall, behind which a power conduit wasn't working as it was supposed to.

"Wait, you changed locations?" McKay asked. "Did you bring the headset - can you hear me?"

"No, the headset was left behind," Harry answered, touching his empty ear. "But it's functions are now with me, so I don't need one anymore."

"So, what, you _assimilated_ the headset?" McKay asked, snorting.

"It seemed useful," Harry agreed, and begun the task of detaching the wall panel so that he could get into the conduit. Just when he almost got it, he could feel somewhere how someone was trying to access a wrong console. "In a room seven levels below you, a man is trying to attach one of your computers into a control console that access the city's database," he said to McKay. "Stop him."

"What? Why, what is he going to do?"

"Cause a short that will corrupt some of the database's information - it is all backed up, so nothing would be lost, but it will be easier for you to access and search the database later on if he doesn't," Harry said, and the listened as McKay switched channels and then snapped at the other scientist, telling them to stop trying to connect to the city without his approval and if they wouldn't, he would have their heads.

"Did that do it?" McKay asked once he was done yelling.

"Yeah, he stopped," Harry said, and then pulled the panel off.

"Okay, good. You're going to have to tell us what's safe and what isn't to do - we don't want to break anything," McKay grumbled. "With our luck the city would sink below our feet." There was a small break before he spoke again. "So, um. Your function is to repair?"

"I guess so. Part of it anyway," Harry answered, frowning. "I haven't really thought of it much, but I think my purpose here is to make sure that the city is safe for the people - for you. Everything I've repaired so far has had to do with your survival or living."

"Yeah, I noticed that. Thanks, by the way. Clean water among other things is right at the top of my priorities. Right next to not drowning and dying generally," McKay agreed heartily, and Harry could sense someone else entering the channel they were using. "Um, Doctor Weir wants to talk with you," McKay explained.

"Alright," Harry agreed, already stripping the conduit of the damaged parts and doing some reconnecting. "Talk away."

"Harry?" a female voice asked carefully, confusedly. "My name is Elizabeth Weir, I am the leader of this expedition."

"Yes, I know," the wizard nodded. "Well, I didn't know exactly, but I was vaguely aware. It's nice to meet you."

"You too," she answered, now with a smile in her voice though she still sounded confused. "Do you know why we are here? Do you…"

"I don't need to," Harry answered honestly. "Atlantis doesn't care and neither do I, really. You're people, you're living, and you need protection, that is enough for us," he shrugged absently and leaned back a little to look up the shaft of the power conduits. One of them was disconnected, so he supported himself against the wall and begun climbing up to get to it. "And the fact that you were able to come here at all already speaks for you," he added, while climbing.

"Pardon?" she asked, now sounding like she was frowning.

"The gate was locked - only one gate could connect to it, the gate in Earth," Harry explained. "You can only come from one place."

"Wait, that can't be - I mean, we sent Colonel Sumner and his team off the city, and they could gate back in alright," McKay cut in.

"That's because soon after they went, I released the locking program from the gate," Harry answered and reached for the conduit. Thankfully, it was just detached, not broken, so he could connect it without any difficulties, and secure the connection so that it wouldn't detach.

"Wait, you said Atlantis. Does that mean Atlantis has an AI like you?" Weir asked curiously.

"No. Atlantis merely functions according to the programs preset," Harry answered, frowning a little. "What is an AI?" he then asked.

"Artificial intelligence," McKay explained, sounding puzzled. "You know, program like you, with personality and decision making capabilities and all that."

"Hm. It's not quite right," Harry answered, shaking his head and then dropping down to the floor and turning to attend to the wires again. "But anyway, Atlantis isn't like me."

"If you're not artificial intelligence, what then - wait, are you an ancient consciousness downloaded into the database or something? Like with the Asgard?" McKay asked excitedly. "Wait, you wouldn't know about the Asgard, they developed the transfer technology after your time, um… well, they can transfer their consciousness into computers - usually the computers of their ships - and then transfer them into cloned bodies…" he trailed away. "What kind of ancient name is _Harry_?"

"Its not an _ancient _name, it's _my_ name," Harry answered with a shake of his head. "And no, I'm not… that. I'm just…" he frowned, his fingers hesitating at the wiring. "I'm just here."

There was a short silence. "So, how did you come to be… here?" Doctor Weir asked hesitatingly.

"I just did," he shrugged and absently connected the wires. "Doctor McKay, I'll take over the system again for a moment. I need to check if the connection worked."

"Be my guest," McKay answered, going as far as to holding his hands up and away from his own computer while Harry quickly gleaned the power control procedures. "What are you doing right now, exactly?" the scientist asked, once Harry was done.

"Fixing some broken power conduits so that I can fix the central thermostat," Harry answered and stepped back to close the panel now that the conduits were fixed.

"Oh. Okay then, good. How much is there in the city to fix anyway?"

Harry considered it for a moment. "A lot," he finally said, and then he was back with the soldiers, who jumped back and away from the crystal tray as he appeared amongst them. "Excuse me," Harry said, smiling absently at them before pushing past one man and getting back to work.

"You jumped again - I think I can track you now," McKay murmured in his head, the sound of his fingers working over plastic and crystal keys echoing along with his voice. "Ah, I can see the problem now to - woah," he added, sounding surprised. "_Damn_!"

"What, what is it?" Weir and the soldier in lead asked together.

"I was wondering how a thermostat could be so important to fix," McKay snorted, and Harry could see somehow distantly how across the city the man was pointing at the screen. "See here, this? This thing would've lifted the indoor temperature to hundred degrees Celsius in a week… that's just, wow. Any other sort problems like this we should know about?"

"I'll let you know when I know," Harry snorted, checking the crystals and then listening to the machinery to check if his alterations had worked, before pushing the tray into the wall, satisfied.

"Hey, now that you're finished, maybe you could pop in here and we could -" McKay started

"No, sorry," Harry answered apologetically. "There is a power distribution issue I need to look into next," he explained, waved his hand as goodbye to the soldiers, and then he in different section of the city.

x

McKay and Weir and the somewhat angry soldier that had tried to grab him were all silent for a long while, and though the channels all remained open, no one was trying to talk to Harry. He didn't particularly mind because there was power issues and dysfunctional air vents and jammed doors and transporters that would disintegrate but not rematerialize, and hundreds other important problems he worked on his way down to the engines.

When there was no more danger of immediate death for anyone in Atlantis due to dysfunctional machinery, Harry waited for a moment, tilting his head. He was simultaneously following all of the people in the city - the soldiers, the scientists, the newcomers in simple clothing, all afraid and confused and trying to hold on. He watched how Weir talked with her people and how someone was stocking away equipment and how people worked in the control room and how McKay studied his programming and tracked his process, apparently satisfied with that for a moment.

"He's doing us a hundred little favours," McKay said when another soldier pointed out that shouldn't they be trying to get to the bottom of the situation, trying to stop Harry - to control him. "We still have no idea what this place even is or how it works - no way of figuring out what's wrong or where to even begin with repairing it if something _is_ wrong. He does. So, how about we let the repairing program do what it was programmed to do by the race millions of light years ahead of us and not muck up a good thing, hm?"

Harry smiled faintly at that, and then walked into a wall, through crystal trays and conduits and wires and numerous sheets and walls of solid metal, and right into the engines where he begun repairing them as well. Now that majority of the key problems had been tended to, it was time to look into the non key problems, and the dysfunctional engines were one of those.

He was brought out from the work he was doing by the opening of the gate and a strange, distant sting which felt rather like pain. Before he knew what was even happening, he was already in the control room, where the gate was open and the wormhole's surface was rippling - and the pillar left of Harry was still smoking with the impact that had hit it.

Somewhere behind someone yelled, "Who is that, what is he -" and someone else roared, "Get out of there, we're taking in fire -" but Harry didn't really care because he knew - he even had the rough schematics of the weapon that had fired the blast of energy that had caught the pillar. He knew better than they did - so he didn't listen, and instead did what he was supposed to do and closed his eyes, his mind already in the system that had been de-activated by careless hands just few hours earlier. He reached with his mind, tilted his head, and turned it back on.

In answer, shimmering sheets of blue energy spread from pillar to pillar, from wall to wall, covering the windows and the control centre and the people, locking the gate within a thirty foot wide shield. The next blast of angry yellow energy that came through the gate hit the shield just over the stairs, and died there, the shield crackling with the energy. The blast following that one flied right past Harry's head before hitting another wall of energy and dying out.

"It's some sort of shield," someone said behind him, and another answered. "Well, obviously it's a _shield_," and someone else said, "Why didn't you turn it on earlier," and "How could we; we didn't even know there was a shield like this!" and finally, "Harry?"

The wizard opened his eyes and glanced behind him and then up, to the second level where the control centre was. People were now carefully approaching the baluster which was now covered in layer of blue energy, and the first to reach it was Doctor McKay.

"Someone turned the secondary shield control off accidentally," Harry said, as way of explanation.

"Of _course_ someone did that," McKay muttered, scowling at the people around him before looking down at him. "You might want to come away from there - were waiting for someone to come through - on a ship," he added.

Harry nodded, and then he was on the second level, right next to the scientist. He smiled at the man, who stumbled half a step back, blinking rapidly. "Sorry," Harry offered. "I'm still only getting the hang of this."

"Warning would be nice, but don't mind me, I'm always open for the concept of sudden heart attack inducing surprises," McKay grumbled, while around them soldiers were fingering their weapons and people were stepping backwards - or forwards. After a moment of tense silence, while more energy blasts were absorbed by the shield and people eyed Harry, half worried and half amazed, the scientist put his hand forward. "Doctor Rodney McKay," he said promptly. "Chief Scientific Officer of the expedition."

Harry smiled delightedly and accepted the hand, squeezing it tightly. "Harry Potter," he answered, nodding. "Nice to meet you."

The man blinked sharply. "What, _seriously_?" he asked with disbelief making his voice a note higher. Before Harry could answer or wonder what he had said, the gate in the lower level erupted, and a space ship came through with such speed that it was half a miracle it managed to slow down soon enough to avoid ramming right into the shield Harry had activated. The gate-shield was turned on by eager hands, and immediately after the room shook with the impact, as something collided with gate-shields. One, two, three collisions.

"Wraith ships," Harry spoke thoughtfully, as he recognised the energy signatures in the gate shield. In the lower level, the cylindrical ship was lifting up and towards the opening in the ceiling. "They've changed."

"Ten thousand years worth of development," McKay said, folding his hands and looking him up and down, taking in Harry's hair, glasses, face. "Harry Potter, huh?"

"Is there something wrong with it?" Harry asked, still studying the data from the gate-shield. The ships were lighter - the manner of their construction had changed, making them probably more sleek, faster…

"Aside from the fact that Harry Potter is a fictional character from a children's books? Nope, not a thing," McKay snorted, still frowning. "Everything is just perfect."

"Alright," Harry nodded slowly, though the words threw him off the track with the gate data. Fictional character? "I'll be going back to work then. Try not to cause a disaster while I'm gone."

McKay snorted again, but said nothing and with a puzzled shake of his head, Harry was back in the engines.

xx

So, I obviously continued this a bit more and then again lost interest. I also got an idea about what the hell is happening in this this. So, screwy explanation;

Atlantis as a security program in place just in case, if her people would return with no knowledge of how to function in the city. The security program would essentially create a repair hologram-type-of-thing which would do all the things the people can't, activate and deactivate system, repair malfunctions, and essentially protect the people from the city, from possible errors and for themselves.

However, since people would obviously be a bit suspicious of a program like this, the program is designed to draw upon the memories of the people to create an appearance of trustworthiness - usually by taking a well known historical figure and taking that figure's appearance and personality. The Ancients, though, have no conception of "fiction", so Atlantis can't make the difference between historical and fictional character. And thus, Harry Potter the hologram who thinks he's a wizard from Britain.

The idea was that eventually people would find out, go all WTF, and then everything would eventually settle down - and since Harry Potter the Wizarding Hologram is kind of useful and kind of amusing, they would keep him around. And with Harry's help they would find ancient ships and such, and one day those ships would create their own Security-Repair Holograms - Hermione for a science vessel, Ron for a warship, and so forth and so forth.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	28. A bit like a human, expanded

Warnings; Ron centric Stargate Crossover. Lot of jealous type of introspection, almost but not really intended to be angsty? Oh, and Deathly Hallows and Stargate 6-7-8 season Spoilers. And hints of Harry x Hermione.

**A bit like a human**

The worst thing about running away wasn't how it made him feel - though that was horrible enough. He thought - he had even wished - that he'd feel guilty or angry or remorseful, anything that would make him feel bad and punish him for what he had done. But no, only thing he felt was relief, gut wrenching, bone shaking relief that made him able only Apparate few measly miles and then fall to his knees in the pouring rain, breathless and weak with the feeling. And he didn't even feel guilty about _not_ feeling guilty, because the relief was overpowering, like a weight had been taken off his shoulders and he was so happy about being able to stand again that he couldn't even sympathise with the others with that weight still on them.

The worst thing wasn't that, nor was it the future looming ahead, the second guesses he knew he would soon start guessing. He would look back and wonder if it had been the right thing, to go like that, to leave his friends to fend for themselves. Maybe then he would feel guilty, or just anxious, but he would look back and second-guess. And more than that, he would look ahead and wonder, what now, what now. What now? He had no idea, all he knew was the mud beneath his knees and how easy it was, just breathing in the rain.

No. What was worst about running away was simply how easy it had been.

As his gasps finally quieted down and he could breathe in without shaking, Ron lifted his head and looked up to the sky. He was soaked through and cold - soon he'd be freezing, not for the first time in the last weeks. He could already feel the beginnings of what might be fever or something worse - the panting and gasping alone had given him a headache. And yet he felt… serene. Almost at peace.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, and let the rain wash away the heat of the argument. It had been so easy. So much easier than he had thought, so much easier than he had feared. Maybe it was the locket like Hermione believed, maybe it was just Ron like Harry believed, or maybe it was them like Ron himself believed, or maybe it was nothing like it. But _Merlin_, it had been easy. Just an argument, heated words, dramatic proclamation, steps away, Disapparition, and… freedom.

The redhead let out a choked laugh, leaning his head back and just letting the rain freeze him. It hadn't been this easy to breathe in almost two years now, maybe longer. And boy, what did that say about him, exactly? That he was a horrible friend? Maybe. That he was a horrible person? Probably. That he was selfish? Most definitely. Selfish, childish prat, jealous and spiteful and obnoxious and greedy… bottomless pit who could think nothing beyond food and comfort.

The laugh that came out this time was a little louder, little stranger, and swaying a little he ran his hand through his hair. "Fuck, what do you expect?" he muttered, grinning manically while his laughter faded away. "What do you expect, Harry, Hermione? What?"

That he was as brilliant as Hermione was, full of useful little titbits of information, bottomless well of random knowledge? Or that he'd be like Harry, powerful and charming and so very brave that nothing shook him? That he could actually _keep up_ with them? How the hell you keep up with a genius and someone like Harry - how the hell were you suppose to measure up to that?

The grin faded into a smile. "Fuck," he whispered, his hand shaking a little as he lowered it. He wasn't brilliant, his memory was shoddy, he was too lazy to even try to read a book not to mention about finishing one - average was all he could be and, really, he was more or less fine with that. He wasn't powerful either and he didn't have the sort of character the likes of Harry or Bill and Charlie did, not really, nor did he have their charisma. "Just a little old me," he muttered, and grimaced. "Average, insignificant little Weasley me."

Hermione and Harry, they… they were _brilliant_. And not in the smart, cool way - they _glowed_ with what they were. Power and knowledge and potential and all the sort of good things - they had gotten to the right lines in the beginning, gotten the first pick on the qualities and characteristics. Ron, on other hand, he had probably been taking a nap somewhere in the background, dreaming of Quidditch, while the others had been lining.

Despite whatever whoever said, Ron had never been really jealous of them - not in the _I wish that was me_ way. If he was, their friendship wouldn't have lasted past the couple of months. Instead all he had felt was profound disappointment in himself every step along the way - because try as he might, because no matter what Harry and Hermione tried to say, because despite everything he did _he could never measure up_. He had no qualities that could compare - he would probably never have any qualities that would compare.

And Hermione and Harry had never seen it. Well, maybe Hermione had, a little - she was the smart one - but she hadn't really understood. And neither had Harry, because really, neither of them saw themselves for what they really were - they couldn't see what other people saw in them, what Ron saw.

They had absolutely no idea _why_ Voldemort wanted them dead so badly. If either of them had been a little bit like Ron, the old snake faced bastard wouldn't have given a damn. But no, they weren't. That was what made them dangerous for Voldemort - unlike anyone else, they would keep going. Take their comforts and helpers, take their food and warmth - hell, chop off their arms and legs - and they'd still keep on going.

"Shit, shit, shit…" Ron hissed between clenched teeth, rocking back and forth while running his hands over his face. Knowing that his two best friends had no idea where he was - and probably no intention of looking for him either - was a relief, but still, the old inadequacy raised its head, wrapping around his torso like the Devil's Snare had, all those years before. It made him wish for one ugly moment that he could blame his friends - they should be looking for him, asking his forgiveness - before he stomped the feeling to ground. Hell no. He didn't deserve it - and his friends were better than that. They were _so much_ better than that.

Everything he wasn't.

He mulled that thought in his head, before sighing. "And isn't that the truth?" he muttered, shaking his head.

It was strange, though. Since the very first year - hell, since the very first weeks - since getting to know Harry, he had been waiting for Harry to walk away. Malfoy, curse him, had always been right about one thing - some wizards were better than others. Harry would've been better off being friends with Neville - because Neville was ten times the wizard Ron was. But Harry never had seen it. And neither had Hermione, for all her brilliance. Or maybe they had, but they had remained his friends out of pity - or maybe because he made them look so much better in comparison -

"Shut up," Ron hissed at himself, kneading his knuckles into his temples, desperately wishing he could just rearrange his brain and make himself unable to think the stupid, nasty thoughts. Merlin, how he wished he just could've been a _better person_, even just a little bit better would've been enough.

The fact that Hermione and Harry both _were_ only made things so much worse. Because while he had spend weeks and months wondering, _would this be the week they would realise what a loser I am_, they had probably never even considered it. Because unlike him, they were so damn _good_. If there was a thing called a _light wizard_, Harry and Hermione were it. And what was Ron? Probably something like murky brown wizard with hint of maroon and _frills_ just because it would be just his luck.

Just thinking about it made him feel like someone had stuffed him into a box.

But he had tried to the best of his ability to be what his friends deserved. It was just… not hard, but plain _impossible_. He couldn't keep up, he wasn't really equal, he was barely worth it to stand behind them - and all his feeble attempts to make a difference made none. He tried to be Harry's friend, but his own issues made him fail at that over and over - or he was plain incapable of keeping up. And, yeah, he had really tried on the idea of being Hermione's boyfriend, but that would never work. She made him feel so stupid, so clumsy, so painfully unworthy that he would never be able enjoy a single moment spent alone with her, not really.

While in the mean while Harry and Hermione were so damn perfect for each other, that of course they were blind to it to the point of complete, overwhelming denial. Probably because Harry, selfish kind _perfect_ Harry, had decided somewhere along their fourth year that, obviously, Ron liked Hermione. And Hermione, as always, had gone with Harry's ideas. And they were so masterful at their self-control that they actually believed the bullshit they made up, to the point where Harry had actually started dating Ginny.

Damn, how much Ron wanted to hate him for that. Because really, what was Harry really doing but leading Ginny along, keeping her childish crush alive, making her hope? He was leading Ginny along while Hermione was leading Ron along and Merlin it was messed up. Except, of course, it wasn't. Because neither of them thought like he did. They could make it work - hell, they could probably keep it up for _years_ if they wanted to. Harry would really be in love with Ginny, he would treat her like she deserved to be treated and better, he would pamper her to heaven and back. And Hermione would believe herself in love with Ron and be the kind, understanding, patient wife she would no doubt believe Ron deserved. And then, ten, twenty years later, they would realise it all, and it would go to hell…

"Ugh," Ron grunted, shaking his head. Even if all that would happen, even if they did realise the mistakes they had made, it would change nothing. They would still keep at it, Harry would remain with Ginny and Hermione with Ron and they would probably be able to fool themselves to think that they were even happy - because the alternative would probably never occur to them, not when it would make others unhappy.

How was anyone supposed to be able to handle _that_? People weren't supposed to _be_ like that, it just… even Bill and Charlie, whom Ron had held in glorified position of his personal idols from the moment he had understood what they were like, weren't like _that_. They were still, well, _human_. With _selfish desires_ and all. Hermione and Harry were plain -

"No, shut up already," he growled at himself, pushing himself up from the ground and to his feet. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, making colours blare before his sight, and stayed there until the thought went away. World would be better place if there were more people like Harry and Hermione, damn it, he _knew_ that better than anyone else. It was just his own shortcomings, trying to make him resent them for it, just like Bill had told him two summers ago…

Thinking of Bill made him for a moment wonder where he'd go now. Weeks upon weeks on the road with his friends, living in that damned tent, starving every day, it left him reeling. For a moment he felt the call for home - because, yeah, Harry had been right about that. If he'd go there, his mum would cook for him and take care of him, nurse him to health sort of speak. And he could really pretend that his Spattergroit was over and done with and no one would be the wiser…

Yeah, and he'd be able to live with himself after that _so_ easily he'd be as happy as dwarf in a land slide. _If_ his mum let him live, that was.

He could go to Bill's and Fleur's place - Bill would welcome him. Well, he would probably give one of his speeches about self worth and all that, and Ron would end up moping around for days, feeling sorry for himself, but Bill would still not kick him out, or even truly blame him for leaving. Bill was cool like that - he just understood stuff like this…

Ron let the train of thought trail away, as he turned to look at the direction where Hermione and Harry were, probably still in the cold tent, planning their next move. They'd go out, looking for the sword of Gryffindor - they'd probably find it too. Then they would have the ability to destroy the locket and every other Horcrux they would find, and in the end… Harry would probably use the sword to cut off Voldemort's head. The concept was so plain obvious that Ron could just imagine it.

Somehow, sitting in the guest room of Bill's house didn't seem so welcoming in compared to that. Not that he wouldn't enjoy his stay - it would be brilliant, he was sure. But it would be hollow. It already _was_ hollow. Not because he'd be betraying Harry and Hermione, thought he obviously was. Not because he was supposed to be helping them out, because really, did they even _need_ him? No - because sitting back, doing nothing and rotting with his own uselessness… well, it would only make him hate himself more.

But what could he really do? Go back? That would probably kill a piece of him and then he'd never get out of the shadow of his two best friends - it would smother him sooner or later. And as much as Hermione and Harry would probably do it, if it was them in his place, he couldn't. Six years, going on seven, he had spent in that shadow, choking. And he wasn't selfless enough to continue.

"Sorry guys," he muttered, waving a haphazard hand towards the direction of their tent. "You're gonna have to find someone else. Someone better. Shouldn't be that difficult."

With that, he turned and begun trekking his way across the rainy forest, with no idea what he was doing or where he was going, but feeling a little better because of it.

It lasted about five minutes, before a bright white light surrounded him, whisking him instantly away.

x

When Ron woke up, he was oddly alert and calm - so much in fact, that the feeling surprised him too much for him to at first notice of anything else. Usually when he woke up, things were blurry with sleep and he spent something like an half an hour fighting either against sleep or against whoever was trying to wake him so that he could stay asleep. Not this time, though - he was wide awake, perfectly alert and not even slightly tired or sleepy. It was kind of weird.

Especially so since he wasn't sure where he was or how he had gotten there. The last thing he could recall was stalking out of the tent in the riverbank after getting into an argument with Hermione and Ron about Horcruxes and plans and swords. Harry had told him to go, so he had gone. He had been walking away… then this place, where ever this place was. It wasn't where he had been intending to go, that was for sure, though he wasn't entirely sure now where he had been going in the first place.

Only after a moment did he even think to look around himself, trying to figure out where he was. The first thought he had was that he was probably dead - or soon to be - that his stupid runaway attempt had ended up with him captured by death eaters or something, and soon he'd be questioned and tortured and he'd give away Hermione and Harry and damn didn't that bring the levels of his uselessness up a notch. Not only was he useless, but he'd have given away his best friends - the only hope world had of being rid of Voldemort. Absolutely brilliant.

At least his head seemed clearer now, thought that was a small comfort, if he was about to be tortured.

Except, the place around him didn't look at all like what he imagined death eater lair to look like. For one, it was lit by muggle lamps - or something like it anyway. They definitely weren't candles, though, that was for sure. For two, everything was made of metal as far as he could see - including the surface where he lay. Walls, floor, ceiling, all metal, lit by muggle lamps, maybe, and not a death eater in sight. Instead -

"Eeh," Ron said slowly, staring. The creature standing beside the not-bed where Ron lay stared back, huge black eyes unblinking. For moment Ron wondered if it was a house elf - but then he almost snorted because, no, definitely not a house elf. The creature was grey, the eyes were black thorough, it had no ears or nose, it was taller than any house elf was, and its head was kind of huge. And it was naked too.

"Please, do not be alarmed," the creature said in odd, airy voice which was somewhat vaguely feminine. It raised its hand which looked like a light handshake could break. "You have not been harmed in any way."

"Okay," Ron answered, wide eyed and still staring. "Where am I?"

"You are on board my vessel, the Asynja," the grey, black eyed creature answered, it's tone frank and unapologetic. "I transported you up here so that I could study you. I assure you, I have performed my studies non-invasively and you shall suffer no consequences what so ever."

"What?" Ron asked, blinking. Then he quickly sat up, and looked around again. The place hadn't changed and he was still surrounded by metal, still with no death eater in sight. "Okay, say that again. I'm aboard a… vessel? What, like a boat?"

"I believe humans use the term space-ship for vessels such as this," the creature answered, moving away and walking to a strange table thing with white stones on it. It, or maybe she, moved one of the stones and turned to look away - to a wall, which was lifting to reveal a window and…

"Woa," Ron muttered, staring again, this time little more than confused. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked, looking between the blue sphere outside the window and the grey creature. "It can't be what I think it is. Can it? I mean, that's not possible right - I mean, come on, this sort of stuff doesn't happen, least of all to me! That can't be it," he said, nodding. "Maybe I'm dreaming. Or hallucinating."

"You are doing neither," the grey creature said with complete lack of sympathy. "What you see is real. You are aboard the science vessel Asynja on geosynchronous orbit around Earth, which you can see here."

"Okay, maybe I'm not, then," Ron muttered, swinging his legs down from the not-bed and standing up. He had never really thought of what earth must look like from above, but this was not quite what he had imagined. "It's smaller than I thought," he muttered, walking closer and marvelling how much white there was on the planet. Then, somewhat belatedly, he realised they had to be clouds. He was seeing clouds from the other side. "Wicked," he murmured a little breathlessly.

The grey creature just blinked slowly up to him, apparently content to let him have his moment of bewilderment. Ron took it gratefully while wondering how weird it was to see stuff like Europe without the lines separating countries - it was like looking at a map which wasn't a map. After a moment, he shook his head. "Okay, so, that's that," he said, and turned to look at the creature. "Why am I up here, again?"

"I wished to study your genetic structure," the creature answered.

"Come again?" the redhead asked, frowning. "My _what_?"

"Your genetic make up - your DNA - the building blocks of your being," the creature said, and then narrowed her eyes slightly. "I wished to see what you were made off, how you were made."

Ron thought about that for a moment while turning to stare at Earth again. The fact that he was really actually looking at it from space hadn't quite settled in yet. "Why?" he asked after a moment. "I mean… no, yeah, that's what I'm asking. Why? What's there so interesting about me?"

"You have a unique ability of producing and controlling a special type of energy, which I believe your people call magic," the creature answered. "I have since determined that this energy has the ability to drastically alter the structure of things on the cellular level - including your own bodies. I wished to study and determine how you do this and how your physiology has evolved to give you this ability."

"Oh," Ron answered, running his hand through his hair - which, he found to his surprise, was dry. "Did you? And how long have I been up here?" he asked. "And why me?"

"I gathered some information, yes, but the matter of how you control the energy your cells produce still alludes me. You have been aboard the Asynja for two days now, kept in stasis for that time," the creature said, again without any sign of guilt. "And I chose you because from my observations I gathered that in your region of the Earth, people have most power when compared to others of your kind elsewhere and thus studying one of your kind from your region of land would be more fruitful. You, specifically, became my specimen after I observed that you were alone and unattached and that it would be unlikely that anyone would notice if you disappeared for small period of time."

"Two days, huh?" Ron asked, blinking and then scowling for a moment before sighing. "This is the part where I punch you. Why don't I feel the urge to punch you?" he asked a little helplessly.

"I have injected a chemical to your bloodstream which will inhibit your emotional reactions and decreasing your anxiety levels - humans would call it a sedative," the creature answered. "It will leave your system in twenty four of your hours, after which your hormones will return to normal and you will, as you say, feel the urge to punch me."

"Huh. I guess that explains it," Ron muttered, staring at the window. Then he frowned. "You kept me asleep for two days, right? You could've kept at it for longer, I bet. Why did you wake me up?"

"Because I have some questions, and a proposal which, by the verdict of the Asgard High Council, I am required to present to you," the creature explained. "As my studies so far have been non-conclusive on the subject of how your power is controlled, I am forced to rely on your knowledge on the matter, rather than my own studies."

Ron lifted his eyebrows. "Something tells me you don't care for that," he said.

"It is not scientifically sound method of extracting answers," the creature agreed, moving away from the window. "If you are ready, I will begin immediately.

"Sure. Just," the redhead started, looking down to the planet. "Just, give me a moment here. I'm still thinking this through," he said, and spend a moment in thought. He was on a space vessel, kidnapped by, what, some sort of non-magical creature from outer space? Wasn't this type of stuff only supposed to happen to Harry? After a moment, he glanced at the creature over his shoulder. "Who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Sigyn," the creature answered. "I am a scientist under the employment of Asgard High Council - a geneticist, humans would call me, one specialising in human physiology."

"Oh. Okay then," the redhead nodded, though all he had really gotten from that was the name. "I'm Ron."

"I know, I have been following you for some time," Sigyn nodded, her attention on another odd pedestal with weird writing and odd white stones, which she moved around.

"You have?"

"Yes. I noticed you and your two companions roughly a week ago and realised that no one knew where you were and if you went missing for a period of time, no one would notice either. First I considered bringing all three of you aboard the Asynja," Sigyn admitted without infliction. "But it would have been too complicated. However, when you and your companions decided to go your separate ways, it was an opportunity I decided not to let pass."

Ron frowned. "How could you follow us? We've been hiding for ages now - and we've been Apparating all over the country."

"Overriding your security procedures was a task, but not an impossible one. It was easy to track you once I had the precise energy signature of one of your items logged in the ship's computes - I believe it is called a Horcrux," the creature answered.

Ron's frown turned into a scowl as he thought it through. Someone had been tracking them just like that - what a scary thought. Especially when he had thought they had been so well secured. "So you've been following us," he muttered.

"Not as such, but the sensors aboard Asynja have been tracking you for some time, yes," Sigyn answered.

"Fine, tracking us, whatever," the redhead said, rolling his eyes and folding his arms. "And when I walked out on Hermione and Harry, you picked to bring me up here because I was easier to get?"

"That was part of the reason, yes - though only concerning the timing. From the beginning, I was more interested in you than the others because you have richer genetic history than they do - as a… muggleborn, Hermione Granger only carries the genetic information of herself when it comes to magic. Harry Potter is similarly limited - and the distortion in his magic would make any studies gained from him imprecise. You, as the product of several generations with similar power, are much better study subject."

Ron swallowed, not sure what he thought of that. "So, if I'm getting this right, you want me because I'm pureblood?" he asked.

"I want you because your family has for generations exhibited magic, yes," Sigyn agreed.

The redhead frowned and then sighed. "Nice to be good for something, I guess," he muttered, though he couldn't say he was exactly happy about it. Without the drug, he would've probably been outright furious because of it, probably. It was strange to feel that without actually feeling the anger. "What happens to me after you have your answers?" he asked.

"That depends on what you think of my proposal," Sigyn answered, glancing him over her bony grey shoulder. "If you wish to return back to Earth, I will arrange it, though for security reasons you will not remember this encounter afterwards."

"If I wish it? I have options?" Ron asked, surprised.

"Yes," the creature agreed, motioning him to come closer. "First, however, I have some questions for you, which I ask you to answer honestly."

"I run away from school, and there's still exams? That's bollocks," Ron groaned under his breath.

"Excuse me?" Sigyn asked, giving him a slow blink.

"I said, I hope they're not too hard, I'm not that good with tests," the redhead said, sighing.

"These you should be able to handle easily enough," Sigyn assured, and begun with, "At what age did you first exhibit magic?"

Along the course of the next hour or so Ron answered many similar questions, all which were about him, his family or his magic and pretty easy to answer. What was his first spell, how long had it taken him to master it, how had he felt when he had first used his wand, what type of magic came easily for him, what type caused difficulties, what sort of magical talents did his brothers have, what about his parents, grandparents, and so on and so on. He had to hash some of his recollections of his family magic pretty hard to get the answers, but he figured that if this was a test with a grade, he might've actually gotten a pretty good one.

Sigyn didn't write any of it down or anything, but as she seemed satisfied with each answer, Ron figured it was better not to point it out. Once he had had answered the last question - what was the most powerful spell he could do and how was it cast - the grey creature nodded, shifting her white stones around with quiet satisfaction.

"That's all?" Ron asked. "That's all you wanted to know?"

"No, it is not all," Sigyn said, turning her huge black eyes up to him. "I have determined that neither genetic analysis, interview with a subject, nor historical records would answer all the questions I have - more in depth, time consuming analysis is required, involving experimentation and observation."

"You… want to keep me here?" the wizard guessed, starting to frown. Go figure.

"In manner of speaking, yes. But not quite," she answered, turning to the console again making the screen above them change into picture of another creature like herself, except a little different. "Let me explain the reason for this study," she said. "I am from a race called the Asgard. We are old and powerful race by any standards, but we have made our mistakes - one of which is the reason for my current appearance," she nodded at the screen and slightly different creature in it. "This is how my race looked roughly three thousand of your years ago."

Ron looked between the screen and her and hummed. The one on screen looked a bit more like human and a bit less like house elf, though the skin and eyes and general hairlessness was pretty much the same. "Bit of a change there," he said. "Is there a reason why you're telling me this?"

"Yes," she answered, with slightly narrowed eyes. "My race survives through a complicated method of cloning. In simplistic terms, we recreate our bodies and shift our consciousness from old body to a newer one, when the older body can no longer support optimal life. This has given us a measure of immortality, but over the years flaws have appeared in the system of cloning, and we can support our race like this for not much longer."

The redhead folded his eyes. "That sounds vaguely familiar," he muttered, thinking of Voldemort and what Harry had told him of the snake faced bastard. "So, because you're all… what, copies of yourself? Because of that, you kidnapped me?"

"In manner of speaking," Sigyn said, her tone a little cutting now. "Because of the centuries of cloning, our physiology has changed and we can no longer procreate. Cloning is the only means through which our race survives. And as the more flaws enter the system, each clone lives slightly shorter time. Because of this, my race faces extinction."

"You have my sympathies," Ron answered without much of the actual feeling in his voice. "What does this got to do with me?"

"Human race bears similarity to what my race looked like eons ago," she answered. "For a long time we have observed humans in hopes of seeing you evolve to the point where you might prove to be the chance of my race's survival. For all that time, no evidence of such evolution was found."

"And then you discovered wizards?" Ron guessed.

"Not quite," she answered, now sounding somewhat reluctant. "Do you understand the concept of alternate realities, Ronald Weasley?"

"Never heard of it," Ron answered, and then raised his hand when the Asgard opened her mouth to explain. "But I'm not _complete_ idiot and the words _alternate realities_ can really mean only so many things."

"Good," Sigyn said, narrowing her eyes but seeming somewhat satisfied. "Asgard have long since possessed the ability of travelling between alternate realities - the method was perfected in hopes of finding a way to cure our people. So far we have only been able to discover hundreds of realities where our alternate selves suffer from same infliction, so it has not been of much use. Not before I thought to look at Earth, and happened to discover you."

"So, in your reality, there are no wizards on Earth?" Ron asked, curious despite himself.

"We would have discovered them centuries ago if there had been," Sigyn answered, shaking her head. "It was a lucky coincidence I happened upon this reality as it is." She turned away, to the screen. "I have already determined that you possess both unique physiology and unique genetic makeup - but the most astonishing discovery was how magic can manipulate all of that in incredibly precise level. You can transform your bodies in cellular level in way I have not witnessed before."

"You mean like human transfiguration?"

"Yes," she nodded. "With this ability, I believe that a solution could be found for my people. By studying wizards and perhaps combining their genes with that of the Asgard in delicate mixture, we might be able to create a type of wizard-Asgard hybrid that could both support our superior intellect and help us regain our natural manner of procreation."

Ron nodded slowly, somehow following despite the fact that most of what she said went completely over his head. It was nothing new, though - there were dozens of half-human creatures out there after all. Centaurs, merfolk, werewolves, vampires, and so on. Sure, he had never heard of someone _creating_ something like that before, but hell, there was lot of things he hadn't heard about before.

"And you think that by studying me you could figure it out?" he asked. "I got to tell you, Sigyn, I'm not exactly the best or brightest of my kind."

"Your genetic makeup is solid and stable, and the information you could supply us would be invaluable," she said simply. "You also exhibit extreme levels of fertility - this, I believe, will be useful for us."

"Okay," Ron answered. "This is the part where I say no thank you, right? Because you want to keep me indefinitely to study my genes and trying to figure out how to splice me with one of you, right?"

The Asgard gave him a look. "That is, in rude terms, my intention. However, I was never going to ask this of you without proposed payment," she said. "And as it is, I doubt the study would take longer than some months, perhaps a year, so it is not _indefinitely_."

"Okay. That sounds a little better. Still leaning to the _no thank you_ answer, but, just out of curiosity, what sort of payment are we talking about?" Ron asked, folding his arms.

"For this? Any thing that is within my power to accomplish or procure," she answered, and at Ron's raised eyebrows she shook her head. "The fate of my entire race is at stake. No payment is high enough."

"I see. So, if I ask, say, several tons of pure gold…?" Ron asked slowly.

"I will obtain it for you within the hour," she nodded. "There are some traces of the alloy in your solar system's asteroid belt, procuring it would be no problem for the ship's transporters technology."

"Whoa, really?" Ron asked before frowning. "Okay, if that's so easy, let's try something else. Say I want to live for forever. Can you do that?"

"Forever, we have found, is near impossibility - and human bodies have a quick decay rate. However through cloning technology, I believe some thousands of years would be viable. Would that be enough?" Sigyn asked, and for a moment Ron thought she was actually amused.

"You would make me rich and make me live for couple of thousands of years, just so that you could study me for, what, a year?" Ron asked. "I'm starting to wonder what's the catch."

"I would be required to take you to my own reality, as my means here are limited," Sigyn answered. "However, once the experiments conclude, transport back would be arranged, of course."

"Of course," Ron muttered, rubbing his chin with his knuckles in thought. He didn't really care about living forever, and though the money could be nice he doubted he needed that much of it. And all in all, the idea of helping a race - even if something as weird as Sigyn's people - was not a bad though. The ugly seedling of selfishness inside him relished the idea - mostly because it was _him_ and not Hermione and Harry. But then, of course…

He turned away, to look back at the window and to Earth, floating in space. Hermione and Harry were down there somewhere, and they'd be fighting a war while he'd be off who knew where. Though he had been intending to abandon them, more or less, and though he had been relieved because of it, now it felt… wrong to just leave. Before he had been still going to stay on earth, and there had been at least a small chance he would know what was happening to his friends - and maybe have the chance to try to help them, if possible. If he left the whole _reality_… that was even worse abandonment.

"Wait," he murmured, turning to Sigyn. "You said you tracked us down by using the Horcrux."

"Yes, it has a specific energy signature which the ship's sensors could track," she agreed.

"Can you use those sensor thingies to find other, erm, energy signatures like it?" Ron asked, now getting little excited as a thought came to him.

"I can," Sigyn answered slowly while staring up to him with unblinking eyes. "I am not following your line of thought, Ronald Weasley."

"My payment," Ron said, crouching down so that they were on the same eyelevel. "If you were following us, then you know something about why we had that Horcrux in the first place, right? So there are others - we're not entirely sure how many or where, but at least half a dozen. We were looking for them and we intended to destroy them, except we didn't have the means."

Sigyn nodded. "You wish for me to find all these Horcruxes for you by using the ship's sensors, and then destroy them?"

"Yes. Actually, no. I want you to find them, figure out a way to destroy them, then send both them and the way to deal with them to Harry, so that he can do it," Ron said, rubbing his hands together. It would be like apology or something - and it would be the best apology in history of apologies. Or maybe the weirdest one. Either way, it would make up for something, maybe. "Can you do it?"

"I can," she nodded, turning to the console. On a round pedestal beside it a white light flashed, leaving behind parchment, ink bottle and a quill. "I suggest you write instructions to your companions," Sigyn said while concentrating onto the white stones and moving them around. "I will be sending them a container of acid which will be able to able to destroy the Horcruxes - it is best they do not misjudge and touch the acid with their bare hands."

"Right. It'll give me a chance to say goodbye and so forth," Ron muttered and walked up to the pedestal. He took the writing materials and sat down to the floor to write, scribbling down a somewhat clumsy apology and explanation, before stopping as Sigyn made a sound of surprise. "What?" the redhead asked, glancing up.

"I have tracked down the Horcruxes," she answered. "There is the locket your companions have, a some sort of drinking utensil which hidden in a vault some miles beneath a place called London, a reptilian creature of sorts in place called Wiltshire and a jewellery hidden in a place called Hogwarts. The last one will cause some problems," she added, turning to look at Ron. "By recalibrating my sensors I have discovered the reason for the magical distortion in your companion, Harry Potter. He seems to be a Horcrux as well."

"What, Harry?" Ron asked, standing up abruptly. "That's not possible. A human can't be a Horcrux, right?"

Sigyn gave him an unimpressed look. "My sensors are not wrong. Your companion carries the signature of a Horcrux in his forehead," she said with finality.

"Oh, his scar… right, I guess that explains a thing or two," Ron muttered, thinking about Harry's visions and bouts of headaches - the weird sixth sense Harry had for Voldemort. "And I guess he can't exactly use acid on that thing, can he?"

"I believe that would prove fatal for him," Sigyn nodded seriously.

The redhead frowned deeply, thinking about it and wondering how the hell did you get a Horcrux out of someone without killing them. After a moment, he sighed. "I guess that's up to Harry and Hermione," he said, turning back to his note. "I'll write it down, let them know about it. They'll figure it out."

"Very well. When you are finished, I am ready to transport," Sigyn answered, turning her back at him.

Hurriedly Ron wrote down the bit about Harry being a Horcrux. Writing it down made him shiver more than hearing it had, making it feel more real, but he ignored it and quickly signed the letter with '_so goddamn sorry, Ron. Ps, if you get the chance, tell my family I love them,'_ before folding it. "I'm done," he said, walking to Sigyn. "Now what?"

"I will send the Horcruxes and the container of acid I have prepared to your companions. Place the letter on the pedestal, and I will deliver it as well," she instructed, and Ron did as asked, watching with fascination how the letter vanished in white light.

"You know, for having only found out about magic, you seem to have talent for it," he noted.

"The transporter technology is not magic," Sigyn answered flatly. "Though I can see how it would appear so to a lesser advanced race," she added, moving one of the white stones across the console. "Your message has been delivered."

"Okay. Sweet. Now what?" Ron asked, a little nervous now that Sigyn had delivered her side of the deal. After all, all was left was his side - a whole year's worth of it.

"Now we will travel back to my reality where I will present my findings and you to the Asgard High Council," she answered calmly while outside the window, Earth was already fading out of view.

x

Extended the "A Bit Like Human" Piece and turned it into an SG crossover, because that's the way I roll right now. and because it's been sitting on my hard drive for days now with no inclination of being continued. I had some vaguely interesting plans for this, for Ron's amusing technological shenanigans with the Asgard - involving him being cloned, gender bendered, him ending up with a kid via a progenation machine and so forth and so forth. Oh, and saving a world or few in the process, serving as the Asgard's spokesperson with the humans of Earth, sort of, and eventually deciding that after all this stuff, returning to Earth seems like the most boring option ever - so he never does and insteads sticks with the Asgard for years and years. Maybe growing a beard. Hmm.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	29. Slightly used, HP x SGA cross

Warnings; **dark**-ish, past **slavery**, past **mind-control,** mentions of **noncon **(that is nonconsensual sex, the homosexual kind in this one), and major **body modifications**. Also, some language, and general fucked-upness. Harry Potter x Stargate Atlantis

**Slightly Used**

When he woke up, he for a moment didn't know anything. It was both oddly soothing sensation to have and extremely disturbing at the same time, because he didn't even know himself - not who he was or what he was. As it was, the fact that his vision and his awareness returned before his memory begun trickling in, supplying him first with his surroundings and only then his name, Harry, was clear indication that something was wrong.

He was bound down by his ankles and wrists and neck, lying on something soft. Despite it, he found himself oddly comfortable and relaxed, and aside from the fact that he was aware of them, the bindings barely bothered him - and if that wasn't indication of one too many calming potions, then nothing was. But even the fact that it _should've_ bothered him _didn't_, not really, and so he instead of even trying to struggle against bindings merely turned his attention to what he saw.

The ceiling above him, first thing within his line of vision, was grey and blue and sort of red at some time, in mixed hues of a colour he had never seen before, and which should've been chaotic but wasn't. It was interesting, in a weird way, and he couldn't tell how long he kept staring at it, seeing it but not really comprehending.

Finally, he blinked his slightly blurry eyes and glanced sideways. Wall, oddly artistic corner with weird patterns, and then some medical monitors. As he saw one of them bouncing a wave, he heard the beeping of his own heart beat, echoed back to him from the machine. There was something else there too - sort of oval blur of red and black and blue - which made him aware of the things strapped around his head.

His brain, pictured on a computer screen, he mused idly, remembering having seen something like it in a telly. First time that had happened to him, though.

Harry let his gaze shift away from the monitors and down. There was another bed on the side, empty with curtains hanging around it and monitors standing beside it. There was a bench, a table, and a trolley full of odd sort of equipment - more medical equipment, probably. This was starting to look more and more like a muggle hospital.

After spending a moment staring at the trolley, Harry turned to look up to the ceiling again, before turning to look at his other side - where he saw more of the same. Empty bed, curtains, more medical equipment and monitors, table, couple of benches, more oddly shaped and decorated walls, a pillar, a window, a door... or at least he thought it was a door. It was closed at the moment - and he supposed that, judging by the bindings holding him down, it was probably also locked.

Thanks to the calming potions - or sedatives, that was probably closer to the mark if he was kept by muggles rather than wizards - he couldn't find it in himself to really worry about it - or about anything, really. All he really cared about was the fact that at least he wasn't in pain, tortured, or dying - just bone-weary and kind of hazy around the edges. That might've been the lack of glasses as much as it was the sedatives, though.

Knowing how he had ended up sedated and bound in muggle hospital would've been nice, though. Maybe he would ask it if there was any people around - and if any of those people would come and see him. Who knew, he might be a patient in mental institution. After the things he had seen and done, it wouldn't have surprised him much.

Sighing heavily, Harry closed his eyes, intending to let the soothing lull of the sedatives drag him back under. Before it could, however, there was a hiss, and as he opened his eyes again, he could see that the door was indeed a door - and it was now gone, leaving behind empty doorway. As the man walking through it walked closer to Harry, the door hissed again, and then closed - rather like an elevator door.

Harry ignored the futuristic door and instead eyed the man somewhat blearily. He certainly fit the part of a doctor - he had the white coat and the worried expression, he was even holding a chart of some sort. As he stepped next to Harry's bed, Harry could see that there was something in his ear - a head set, like the ones he had seen in the telly when he had been kid, except much, much smaller.

The doctor blinked at the monitor, and then turned to Harry, his eyes widening a little as he saw that Harry was awake. Unlike Harry had expected, the man neither stepped back nor forward, and instead touched the black piece of technology on his ear with his fingers. "Doctor Weir, Rodney. He's awake," he said, and then leaned forward, pulling out a penlight. "Hullo there. Can you hear me?"

"Mm," Harry answered, both in agreement and objection as the man aimed the penlight into his eyes. Scottish doctor, he mused, squeezing his eyes shut and then tiredly glaring at the man for momentarily blinding him. He was in Scottish hospital?

"That's good, that's very good - you had us worried for a moment there. Are you in any pain?" the man asked.

"Hm," Harry hummed again and blinked slowly. He tried to open his mouth to ask where he was, but his jaw wouldn't move and his tongue felt numb. Instead he resorted glancing around himself, shifting his hands a little to indicate the bindings, and frowning in askance.

"You're safe, big guy, don't worry," the doctor promised, smiling down at him. "We had to sedate you a wee bit, so I imagine you're feeling somewhat lax. The binding were for your own protection - you seized up badly some time ago, and could've done yourself some serious harm. Now. Do you know where you are?"

Harry sighed, and nudged his head to the side in poor attempt at shaking his head, frowning a little at the words _big guy_. The doctor smiled reassuringly, patting his shoulder. "It's okay, it'll come back to you, lad," he promised. "Just know that you're safe, you're among friends and nothing bad is going happen. Do you understand?"

With a somewhat dull attempt at swallow - his mouth tasted… weird - Harry nodded. It wasn't exactly as good as explanation, but it was definitely better than nothing. His mind strayed a little, wondering about how he had ended up in such a strange muggle hospital, while the doctor checked the monitors and measured his pulse, and who knew what else. Thankfully the man didn't seem to expect him to offer any coherent conversation, and went about the work in comfortable quiet, offering him few reassuring smiles every now and then.

The doctor didn't seem like what Harry would've expected doctor of a mental institution to look like. A good sign, maybe? He didn't look like he was about to dissect Harry either, which was definitely good. Hopefully.

Harry forced himself back to the present when the door hissed again, and people came in. A woman with dark hair and red patches in her jacket, two men one of whom was dressed entirely in black and another into more lighter brownish colours, and… a soldier with what looked like a machine gun in his hands.

The wizard frowned as the soldier took stand beside the door, holding the gun expertly in his hands like expecting to need to shoot it any second now. Okay, maybe not a normal hospital after all. Harry had to wonder what he had done to merit such a guard.

"Is that necessary?" the doctor asked, frowning at the soldier.

"Carson, there are procedures we have to follow," the woman said, looking down to Harry with worried and curious look. "He's aware?"

"Yes. It seems like he is recovering maybe even quicker than assumed," the doctor, Carson, said, though he wasn't looking at the woman as he spoke, but at the same man Harry couldn't stop staring. "I think it will be a while before he can answer any questions, though - the sedatives are hitting him hard now, without the device interfering. Rodney, should you be here?"

"I think after everything I'm entitled to being here," the man in brown snapped, stepping forward. He had a band-aid on his cheek and there were bruises on his face, and his left arm was in a cast - and he looked oddly reluctant, as he looked down to Harry. "And I need to know. Do you remember me?" he asked, the question sharp and demanding and directed at the wizard.

"Rodney, don't you think that's a little too soon?" the doctor asked, frowning.

"No, I _don't_."

Harry frowned as the man turned to look at him expectantly. He looked up and down, squinting a little while taking in the man's broad face and bright blue eyes and receding hairline, before glancing down to the uniform and the cast in his arm. None of it rang a bell. Harry nudged his head to the side, and almost regretted it as he saw the man's face fall with disappointment. The expression was there only for a second, before the man pulled his lips into a tight line.

"Probably for the best," he muttered, stepping back and looking away.

"Yeah, he's lucky not to remember the stuff you made him do," the other man smirked, lifting his eyebrows when the first man, Rodney, glared at him.

"It's still early, it might not be permanent," the woman said soothingly

The doctor nodded slowly in agreement, offering the man Harry was apparently supposed to know a sympathetic smile. Then the Scottish doctor turned back to Harry. "Can you remember who you are, lad?" he asked. "Where you are from? Do you remember any family - when were you born, how old you are?" he asked, his tone reassuring. "You don't need to answer, just nod if you can."

Harry thought about that. He was… he was Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, orphan, raised in Number Four Privet Drive, he was a wizard, a Gryffindor, best friend of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley - enemy of Dark Lord Voldemort. He was… he was the Boy Who Lived - he was a hero and a fugitive, freedom fighter in a war his side had already lost. He was… seventeen?

Wasn't he?

"Mrr'r," he mumbled, and the doctor frowned, uncomprehending.

"Mirror, I think," the woman said, glancing around. It was the doctor who found one, and then held it above Harry's face so that he could see his own reflection in it.

For a moment Harry stared at himself, not really understanding what he was seeing. His hair was long - long enough to be braided and even then it was slithering down the pillow and to the mattress. There were lines on his face, around his eyes and on his forehead, and he had a scar across the side of his face, ending just beside his left eyebrow. The lightning bolt one on other hand was white and faded, barely visible anymore. His face was shaped a little differently too - his jaw was a little wider, his throat stronger, his Adam's apple more pronounced. His chin was covered in what looked like couple day's worth of beard - and he had a _goatee_ of all things.

No, definitely not seventeen. Over twenty, by the looks of it. Way over twenty.

Swallowing, he closed his eyes to block the stranger in the mirror. He couldn't remember any of it. He couldn't remember the new scar, he couldn't remember the long hair, or the goatee. Why a Merlin damned goatee? And long hair? His hair was bad enough when it was short, why the hell would he grow it out? To torture himself?

"Okay, that answers that question," the doctor murmured and Harry could hear him putting the mirror away. "The implant did govern over majority of his brain's memory centres - the damage it done could've easily affected his ability to recall information."

"He's amnesiac?" the woman asked, worried.

"No, it doesn't work like that - I know all there's to know about the thing, and it really doesn't work like that," the man Harry was supposed to remember, Rodney, snapped and stepped forward again. "Do you remember anything? Your name?" he asked, tucking his good arm beneath the one in cast in semblance of folding his arms.

Harry nodded slowly. "Hhry," he tried to answer, but it game out slurred and messy.

"There, see? He remembers his name," Rodney said, lifting his chin. "At worst the implant suppressed his ability to create new memories while he still had it, but even I know enough about this voodoo mumbo jumbo to know that you can't just wipe a brain clean just like that."

Implant? Harry wondered, frowning. Implant that affected his memory? Was that some sort of muggle thing?

"That's something," the so far nameless man in black murmured. "So, he really didn't always have one?"

"No. The scans indicated that he's had one for about half a dozen years, no more. I was worried that the implant might have side effects, but Rodney might very well be right, and the implant only suppressed his ability to create new memories, but didn't destroy the old ones…" the doctor murmured, looking thoughtful. He leaned closer to Harry again. "Hry? I need you to think really hard. How old are you? Eighteen?"

Harry scowled. More like twenty five, according to these people - but seventeen, according to his memory. "Yung," he mumbled past his numb tongue. "Implnt?" he asked, turning his gaze to Rodney, who seemed like the only one willing to actually share his information.

"Yeah. Brain implant - a sort of chip. Fucked up race called the Evetians put it into your head half a dozen years ago, turning you into a human puppet," Rodney said, snorting with disgust. "We took it out couple of days back," he added, waving his broken arm around in indication. "It's a long and very screwed up story."

"Hm," Harry answered, frowning. Half a dozen years of his life which he couldn't remember, spent as a human puppet. Something like Imperio, then? Except he had thought he was resistant to Imperio. Though, if it was a chip, then… maybe it worked differently. He sighed, and closed his eyes. Six years? No wonder he was so bloody tired.

"I think it might be best we let him rest and let the sedatives clear from his system," the doctor said, and the voices faded as Harry spiralled down to sleep.

x

When Harry woke up the next time, the lights of the room had been dimmed down, and the room was swimming in shadows. For a moment he lay completely still, just watching the shadowed ceiling, before he was distracted by a sound. There was the monitor humming next to him - not beeping anymore, apparently he had been detached from it. He could hear a more remote, more resonating mechanical hum too, this one seemingly coming from everywhere around him. Then there was another sound, soothing and distant, rising and falling like ocean waves.

He blinked at the ceiling before glancing down. He was still bound down to the bed. "_Liberata_," he whispered, and felt a spark of… something, as the leather straps all released him instantly, whipping open at his command. Satisfied and confused at the same time - because it shouldn't have worked, _liberata_ was no spell he knew and he didn't even have a _wand_ to cast a spell with - he sat up, lifting his hands and rubbing his now freed neck. His hands felt odd. Rougher, bigger than he remembered.

Stronger too, he noted as he noticed how his biceps made the hospital gown's thin sleeves strain. Disturbed and fascinated at the same time, he eyed his hands and then his arms, before reaching quickly behind him and opening the straps of the gown. Getting it off was a quickly done - but the staring that followed took a while longer.

He could recall somewhat vaguely that he had sometimes wanted a stronger body. He had always been scrawny, and despite regular Quidditch practices, it had never really changed. It had gotten especially bad when he had started getting growth spurts - all the while failing to gain any mass. He had, the last time he recalled seeing himself, looked very much like a flagpole, and not very appealing. The wish for more mass hadn't been entirely about aesthetics, though - it was the idea of being physically stronger than Dudley, than most people, that had been appealing. Not to mention about the many other people who were after him. Even in world of magic little bit of physical strength and fortitude wasn't a bad thing.

It was something he had always doubted he would ever get.

Harry swallowed, running a shaking hand down his whole lot more furrier chest than he recalled it to ever be. He was _ripped_. His arms were bad enough, but his chest, his stomach… his legs too. What the hell had his body been doing in the last years? He wasn't just… muscular, but he was also scarred, and… and different.

And completely naked and _modified_, he added mentally, eyes wide as he stared down to his lap.

He sat still for a moment, naked and shivering in the odd, foreign room. Then, suddenly, his body became a bit too much to handle, and he quickly pulled the hospital gown back on - and reached for the duvet for good measure, wrapping it around his shoulders. He shivered again, as his knuckles hit the long, thick braid, and he hurriedly pulled his hand back.

He felt unreal - like he was stuck in someone else's body. And house. And _world_.

Swallowing convulsively, Harry sat still for a moment, before the sound of ocean waves distracted him from the sudden blinding wrongness he felt. He let the sound sidetrack him completely, and after a moment he stood up carefully, walking around the bed and towards the window. Maybe he was in a hospital near the coast…

What he saw outside the window did little to reassure him about, well, anything. Past tall sky scrapers and weird, metallic harbour, all he could see was the dark ocean and even darker sky - and, peaking just beside one of the skyscrapers, there was a moon. Not the moon he knew, but a completely different one with foreign craters. The few stars he could see past the scattered cloud cover were completely alien to him too.

Harry swallowed, leaning onto the metallic wall beside the window. Alien. Yeah, that sounded about right.

"Where the hell am I?" he whispered, staring at the buildings - which looked like no buildings he had ever seen - and the piers - which, now that he looked closer, seemed to go on as far as he could see, behind the building he was in. he isn't sure how or why, but suddenly he knew that they weren't parts of a harbour - there was no harbour because there was no ground beneath the buildings. It was floating on top of the ocean, the entire thing, buildings and piers and all.

After a moment of staring uncomprehendingly, Harry turned his eyes away from the window and to the room around him. Then, still shivering, he held up his hands. "_Tempus. Locas_," he whispered, and text lit up just above the palm of his hand.

_25:53, __February 16, 2005__. Second-third Ward, Infirmary, Atlantis._

After a moment, he tried against. "_Avernakis Locas_," he said, the foreign words of the foreign spell coming frighteningly easily - as did the answer.

_Second-third Ward, Infirmary, Atlantis, Lantea in Lantean System, Pegasus, Local Group._

"Bloody hell," he whispered, closing his hands into fists and letting the glowing text above his palms fade. Astronomy had never been his best subject, but he knew what the Local Group was. He even vaguely recalled the Pegasus. Dwarf galaxy, one of the galaxies nearest to Milky Way.

Somehow, he was not only not home, but he was so bleeding far away from home, that he could barely wrap his mind around it. Another world. Another _galaxy_.

How the hell had he ended up in another galaxy?

Drawing a shuddering breath, Harry pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to calm himself down. "Focus, focus," he ordered himself, trying to remember. There had to be something, something that had happened, something he could grasp. The last thing he remembered, maybe. What _was_ the last thing he remembered?

Sliding down along the wall beside the window and to the floor, he concentrated hard. He remembered… he remembered Ron and Hermione - and the months on run. Living in a tent, trying to find the Horcruxes, getting into whole load of trouble. Breaking into Ministry to get the locket. Bill's and Fleur's cottage - Dobby, dead. Ollivander and Griphook. Fighting with Ron about something - the locket. Hermione and visiting Godric's Hollow - the snake, Nagini. Ron, the sword, the locket - breaking into Gringotts. Hogwarts - yes, he could remember Hogwarts.

He could remember a battle.

Drawing deep breaths and trying not to hyperventilate, Harry concentrated onto that. Ron and Hermione and Neville - he had had scars. Ginny, Luna, Cho, trying to find the Diadem. McGonagall and the Order of Phoenix and everyone - and the Death Eaters. Hermione and Ron had destroyed the Diadem…Voldemort, Snape, the memories - the truth.

And death.

No, he thought wildly, rocking back and forward and forcibly keeping his grip on the memories. No, it hadn't been _death_, not exactly. Something else. Something glowing and brilliant and incredible. Not death - because he could remember _after it_. Going back. Destroying Nagini. Killing Voldemort. Merlin, it had been easy - just wipe of his hand, really. So easy - because he had been so powerful. Bigger, greater… different.

It was like there was a door in the darkest corner in the back of his mind, and from the gap underneath it he could see blinding light - and that was what it had been like…

But it hadn't lasted. He had destroyed Nagini, destroyed Voldemort - and after that, nothing. Nothing, but waking up bound to a bed, seven years older, seven years stranger. In a different world, different galaxy.

Shivering and swallowing against the urge to cry, Harry looked up as he heard a sound from outside the metal doors. As he watched, the doors opened and a woman in white coat glanced inside, yawning. She blinked sharply as she noticed that the bed was empty, and then hurriedly glanced around and to Harry, who sat huddled on the floor beneath the window.

For a moment Harry was certain she would cry out, call for help, something - the urge was there, in the paling of her face and the widening of her eyes. Then she took a breath and relaxed. "Are you alright?" she asked, taking a hesitating step inside.

"Terrified," Harry answered with honesty that startled him a little. "How did I get here? Who are you? How did I -"

"Calm down, shh, it's okay. You're safe," the woman said, now relaxing completely, and walking forward. Discarding her notepad, she kneeled in front of him. "I'm Alisa Janson - I'm a nurse. You are in the infirmary of Atlantis. Do you know what an infirmary is? Good. Then you know that you're here so we can help you, right? So, there's no need to be afraid."

Harry nodded, shuddering slightly. "How did I get here?" he asked again, now quieter.

"I don't know if I'm qualified to tell you that - but you were brought here from another planet, one called Evetia," Janson answered, looking at his face closely. "When you were brought here, you weren't yourself - you had a implant in your brain that made you unaware of anything happening. Do you know what that means?"

The wizard swallowed, shuddering again. "Puppet," he whispered. "Someone said puppet."

"Yes," the woman agreed sadly. "The implant made it so that other people could control your every actions - like a… a puppet master."

Harry nodded, looking away, trying not to throw up. "Seven years," he murmured, frowning. "I was… made to do things," he added, and glanced down to himself, to his hands and arms. "I'm different."

"You were under the control of that implant for a long while - your body has grown and changed in that time," Janson nodded. "But we took the implant out - you're not under its control anymore."

"Yeah, I figured," Harry nodded, taking his fingers cautiously to the back of his neck where he could feel something. A thick wad of band-aid, over fresh stitches. The implant, however it worked, had been cut out of him. "Why… why did you do it?" he asked, blinking. If he had been under the implant for seven years, why had it been removed.

"We don't condone to things like that," Janson said sternly. "Our people don't approve slavery."

Harry swallowed, relaxing against wall. "Good," he whispered. "Good. Thank you."

"You're welcome," the woman smiled. "Now, how about we get you back to the bed? It's the middle of the night, and you need rest after the surgery."

"Bound?" Harry asked worriedly, casting a glance at the bed.

"No, no. They were for your protection only, and you obviously don't need them," the nurse said, she too glancing at the binds worriedly. "Not that they seem to hold you anyway," she added with forcedly light tone, before standing up. "How about you take one of the other beds? No bindings in them."

"Yeah… yeah, okay," Harry whispered, and let the woman help him to his feet. He had thought that she was relatively tall for a woman - but he was good head's worth taller than she was, he found as she guided him to the bed. Just how tall was he now? And how had he gotten that way - he had never thought he'd get taller than average, just like his dad…

"Rest now," Janson said, helping him lay down. "I'll bring you something to eat in the morning, and Doctor Beckett and Doctor McKay will explain everything to you."

The wizard nodded as the woman pullet the duvet over him. "Thank you," he whispered, and smiling the woman bid him good night, before heading away again. For a long while Harry just stared after her, even after the door closed on her heels, before finally sighting and closing his eyes to uneasy slumber.

x

When Harry woke up the next time, it was to see nurse Janson keeping her promise. "Good morning," she said while setting tray of food onto the table next to the bed. "Here, let me lift the bed up a little and then you can eat. How are you feeling?"

"Less panicked. Thanks," Harry answered, shifting so that she could adjust the bed. Then he noticed that the soldier at the door had returned - and by the looks of it, the soldier had been there for a while. "Am I in trouble?" he asked, glancing at the nurse.

"It's just a protocol. Don't worry about it," Janson said, setting a table before Harry and placing the tray onto it. "Here. I know it doesn't look much, but it should be edible enough."

"I'm sure it's fine," Harry answered, glancing over the tray. Definitely no Hogwarts feast, but considering it had been _years_ since he remembered eating last time, it didn't look that bad either. Shifting a little, Harry took the knife and the fork and quickly tucked in. It didn't taste like Hogwarts feast either - but certainly much, much better than the stuff he had eaten while running with Hermione and Ron.

"Now, how about I call for Doctor Beckett, and after you eat he can explain everything to you?" the nurse asked.

"Sure, I guess," Harry nodded after swallowing. For a moment he considered asking for actual clothes, maybe a chance to shower, but one glance at the soldier standing guard made him decide against it. "It was nice talking to you."

"You too. I'll come by later and we can talk some more, okay?" The nurse smiled, patting his shoulder - ridiculously muscular shoulder - before walking away. Harry didn't know what to be more worried about, the fact that the woman was flirting with him, or the fact that his shoulder felt like rock.

He decided to push it all aside, and concentrate onto the food instead. Hospital food or not, he was starving.

He was almost done with the food and was just about to open the cup of pudding, when the Scottish doctor walked in. While Harry wondered about how there could be someone Scottish in another galaxy, the man walked towards him. "I hear you had a bit of an adventure last night. How are you feeling, Hry?"

Harry frowned at that for a moment before remembering how he had been asked his name. Hry, huh? "Better," he answered after a moment. "But a bit confused. You are… doctor Carson?"

"Carson Beckett - and confusion is perfectly understandable, considering the circumstances," the man nodded, pulling a chair and sitting down beside him. "Nurse Janson says that she's explained some of what's happened to you?"

"She told me I've been… a slave, for the last years. In some place called Evetia," Harry nodded slowly. "And I had a… implant in my head that turned me into a puppet."

"Aye, that's about right, I'm afraid. It's a barbaric custom, but according to what I've heard, it's frighteningly common among the Evetians," Beckett answered. "We don't know how you came to be there, or how you… became one of the, um, the implanted, but we suspected that, like the custom is there, you were bought or taken from another world and brought to Evetia specifically to be an… implanted," the doctor explained with a slight grimace as he glanced over Harry's chart. "We've been able to determine that you've had an implant for about half a dozen years. That is probably the length of the memory black out you have," he added and offered a slight, awkward smile. "I imagine you're a wee bit… different from the way you remember."

"Yeah," Harry snorted, glancing down to himself and touching his bicep gingerly. He would never, _ever_ get used to it. "They… probably used me in some sort of physical labour. That's why I'm so… buff now?" he asked awkwardly.

"Most common use for the implanted was fighting - Evetian disagreements and arguments are all settled in fights between the implanted owned by the arguing parties," Beckett said sympathetically. "I suspect you've gone through specific training to become skilled at it."

Harry nodded. It explained the scars - of which he probably had lot more now. "Is that why I'm so tall now?" he asked. "I never thought I'd be this tall. Did they use drugs or something?"

The doctor looked surprised at first, then thoughtful. "Well, there is some evidence of possible artificial tampering in your natural growth. Do you know what the epiphyseal plates are?"

Harry shook his head, frowning.

"They're also called growth plates - they're something children and adolescents have in their long bones - that is, the bones that are longer than they are wide. A growth plate is a hyaline cartilage plate in the metaphysic at each end of a long bone - it contains growing bone. For as long as it's there the bone keeps on growing in length, until it seals - at which point a person stops growing in height," the doctor explained and then looked at him to see if he was following.

"Okay," Harry nodded slowly.

"Now, normally these plates begin closing at age of seventeen when the epiphyseal cartilage cells stop duplicating. The ossification is completed by the age of twenty five… that is, the bone will be sealed and have completely stopped growing. However, in your case, the cell duplication lasted until you were twenty," Beckett said. "Some of your the epiphyseal plates still haven't sealed completely."

"And… the Evetians made that happen?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I couldn't even begin to guess how - but aye, I would say so. This is definitely not a natural process, as there is some evidence of structural weakening, and mutation that has been since corrected surgically - you're perfectly fine now," the man quickly assured him. "Despite their obvious lack of morale, their doctors did excellent work… but you probably had problems walking about four years back."

"I guess I'm glad I don't remember that," Harry muttered, not quite able to wrap his head around it. "Is that how I'm so…?" he flexed his left arm awkwardly.

"No. That, as far as I can tell, was honest hard work," Beckett said with a faint smile, obviously knowing it wasn't much a reassurance. "You have gone through some other medical procedures, but most of them were corrective surgeries - there is evidence of several fractures that have been corrected surgically. Most likely the result of fighting. As of now, though, you are pinnacle of good health."

Harry nodded slowly. His body was modified out of proportions, literally, but at least he was healthy. Now. Who knew how bad his health had been back when the modification was still ongoing. "Was I…" he hesitated, licking his lips nervously. "Was it just fighting, or was I…?" he stopped again, and thought back to his first glance at his completely transformed body. "There's been some superficial… modifications," he said, pointing downwards. "So, I'm wondering…"

Beckett grimaced slightly at that, apparently speaking Nervous-and-embarrassed-patient fluently. "I can't be sure, but it's a distinct possibility. When you first were brought here, I performed a thorough medical examination. You're perfectly clean, no evidence of sexually transmitted diseases what so ever, but there was evidence of some old… tearing." He coughed, looking away. "Nothing of the sort happened here, of course. Rodney would never -"

"Rodney?" Harry asked, frowning. "That beaten up man from before?"

"Ah, aye," Beckett nodded. "I should probably explain how it is that you came to be here," he murmured, and leafed through his notepad sheepishly. "In Evetia it's a custom that, when a… implanted, loses a fight in certain circumstances, his or her ownership is transferred to the winning party. For example, if there's a disagreement where only one party owns an… implanted, and the fight is won by the party without one, the ownership of the implanted is transferred."

The doctor grimaced. "Rodney, I'm afraid, enraged your former owner - and your owner made you fight him."

Harry blinked. "And he _won_?" he asked suspiciously. Rodney hadn't looked much like physical fighter to him.

"Aye, it surprised most of us as well. There's been talk that he cheated - but as the ownership was transferred, his victory was undisputable," Beckett answered thoughtfully. "I had a theory that you might've been fighting the implant and that you lost on purpose,"

"Why would I do that?"

"The fact that Rodney was promising that he'd get your implant removed if you didn't kill him might have something to do with it," the doctor said amusedly before turning serious. "You came out of the fight relatively unscathed, only lost your consciousness - but he broke several ribs, his arm and suffered severe bruising."

"You mean I broke several of his ribs, his arm and beat him up," Harry murmured, shifting uneasily where he sat. Merlin, the mere notion that he could do something like that was making him ill.

"No one holds it against you, lad - you weren't in control of your actions," Beckett assured him. "Rodney will be fine, so there's nothing to worry about. Of course he will complain about it until kingdom comes, but he always does."

Harry nodded, though he didn't feel much reassured. "How long have I been here?" he asked, glancing around.

"Couple of weeks or so - sixteen days, now," Beckett said. "We had to examine and determine the nature of the implant before we could safely remove it."

"And since it was removed couple of says ago, that means that I was most of that time under Rodney's control," Harry murmured, straightening his back a little.

"He didn't do anything, I promise. Rodney might come off as… unpleasant, but he is a good man at heart. He would've never abused power like that - the mere concept that he had it disgusted him," Beckett assured hurriedly.

"I'm not worried. He would've had the right, and I wouldn't blame him if he had," Harry murmured thoughtfully, looking away. Then he sighed and shook his head. "Now what happens to me?" he asked.

"Well… if you can remember your home planet, we might be able to help you get home," Beckett offered. "You will have to talk to Doctor Weir about that, though - it's her call in the end.

Harry blinked at that. "You free me from slavery and take care of me - and after that you're just going to let me get home? No payment involved, nothing?" he asked with disbelief.

"That is how we do things, aye," Beckett nodded with a smile. "So, can you remember where you come from?"

Harry smiled faintly at that and shook his head. "I can. Getting there might be a bit of a problem," he murmured. "Unless you have a way to get me to another galaxy." He sighed and shook his head. "Do you think I could get some actual clothes? Maybe a shower?" he asked, glancing at the soldier. "Or am I not supposed to leave?"

"I think shower's not out of question. I will give Rodney a call - he will have your clothes," Beckett said, standing up, and stepping forward. "Just let me have a look at that bandage - we should probably be able to remove it, it was pretty small cut…" he said, and as Harry tilted his head forward he checked the bandage in the back of his neck. After a moment, Becket pealed the bandage back. "Aye, it looks good. Just be careful when you shower, it might still be wee bit tender," he said, backing away. "The lieutenant can show you to the shower."

"Thank you," Harry nodded. "For taking the implant out. I really… _thank you_."

"You're welcome, lad," Beckett smiled and after few words exchanged with the soldier at the door, he headed out.

After Harry had finished the pudding, the soldier showed him into a small shower, where the water came like rain out of the ceiling and adjusted it's temperature without asking him. Harry didn't bother to stop wondering about it - Hogwarts showers had done the same, sometimes - and instead spend the time scrubbing himself thoroughly, both trying to rid his body of all things he didn't know and get used to it at the same time. It was so different. Taller, broader, stronger…

And really, _really_ sensitive.

Cursing the unknown, unseen Evetians under his breath, Harry begged the water to turn cold - and it did, frostily cold. Shuddering, he remained under the pour until his weird, modified cock got itself under control and his… behind stopped clenching so much. The implications of his body's reactions and the odd, aching _emptiness_ he felt were making him want to throw up, but he forced himself past it, past everything.

Only good thing he found was the fact that he was wrong about the hair. It was surprisingly easy to manage when it was long - even when it was wet and reached down his tail bone. Another thing he found was that that apparently when ever he needed one, a new, foreign spell would present it self, ready and waiting on the tip of his tongue. _Abcido_ shaved his chin - even the goatee, thank Merlin - and _sicco_ dried his hair and body instantly while _evolv_ untangled his hair without brush needed. Despite the fact that he already knew a spell for it - _tria nect_ - he didn't care for braiding the hair, so instead he used the band that had kept the braid secured, and bound his long hair into a low ponytail.

He was just about begin wondering if he would have to walk out in the hospital gown, or completely naked, when someone rapped lightly against the metal door of the bathroom. "Ah, Hry? I got some of your clothes here, Beckett said you might want some."

Hry, again. Harry glanced at his reflection and sighed. He did look more like Hry than Harry. Harry was a gangly teenager with glasses and messy hair. The… quarter-giant in the mirror did not look like that.

And never again would.

"Would be easier, if I was Hry," he murmured under his breath, brushing his hand over the now slightly tender skin of his chin. "Then maybe I wouldn't be so Merlin damned confused." Shaking his head, Harry took the towel he hadn't really even needed, and wrapped it around his hips. Once he was somewhat decent, he glanced at the door, wondering how to open it. As if reacting to his thoughts, it did.

"Do they always do that?" Harry asked, looking at the door frames. "The shower did it do."

"What? Do things by themselves? Ancient technology - it's partially operated manually, partially by mental components - and partially it analyzes your actions and reacts accordingly," Rodney said, blinking at him over somewhat messy pile of clothing. "You shaved the…" he made vague motion at his chin.

"Ah, I… I didn't like it," Harry answered awkwardly, rubbing his hand over his chin. "Was I supposed to keep it?"

"No, _god_, we already have one bearded hulk around there, and I think one Ronon is more than enough. Anyway, here," the shorter man said, offering the pile of clothing. "This is pretty much all - there's the clothing you came here in, and then some Atlantis uniforms you've worn since - since you didn't have anything else. They're kind of ill fitting - finding fitting clothing for a giant isn't exactly easy. There's some of Ronon's things there, though, those might fit better. Oh, and this," he took out a plastic wrapping. "New underwear, never used. Thought you might appreciate it."

Harry nodded slowly, accepting the pile. Most of the clothes in it were the same black the soldier standing outside the bathroom was wearing - though there were leather and suede garments too. "Thanks," he murmured, a bit bewildered by the notion that, all of sudden, he was _too tall_ for clothing. Before it had been more or less the other way around. "Is this, uh… I mean, which of these are the ones I came in?" he asked, not really sure how to word the question. Obviously most of the clothes were borrowed, so they weren't really his. The notion that he only owned a set of clothing, if even that, wasn't really that worrisome though - hell, it was all he had ever seemed to own - but he needed to see them.

Rodney grimaced, and picked two of the garments - dark leather pants and vest, first of which seemed uncomfortably tight and the latter couldn't really be called vest as much as it was a strap. They looked like they had been made to look, rather than to fit. "I know, lovely, aren't they?" Rodney snorted, holding the two articles away from himself like they were dirty. "I, uh, got you more comfortable clothing as soon as I could. You haven't actually worn these since… uh, since you came. Here that is."

Harry nodded with relief, grateful that he hadn't been walking around dressed like, well. _That_. "Thanks," he said again. "I'm going to change now."

"Sure, of course," Rodney nodded, taking a hasty step backwards. "Right. I'll just be going them - you probably don't want hang around me anyway, considering, you know. Anyway -"

"No, no. I want to… there are things I'd like to ask," Harry said awkwardly. "If that's okay."

"It's fine. Sure. Anything you need," the shorter man nodded, looking about as much at easy as Harry felt. "I, uh… I'll go wait. Over there. Okay?" he pointed at a bench near by. "Right. You, uh… get clothed, then." He said with another nod, and then hurried away, leaving Harry staring bemusedly after him.

"Is he always like that?" he asked, glancing at the soldier.

"Doctor McKay? I wouldn't know," the man said with a cold frown, directed at Rodney. "And I wouldn't want to."

"Hm," Harry hummed, lifting a single eyebrow at the man before heading back to the bathroom. As the door closed behind him, he took off the towel, and begun picking through the pile of clothes for something to wear.

He settled on pair of light brown suede trousers which were fairly comfortable and fit him better than any of the uniform trousers, and black t-shirt which felt a little tight around his shoulders, but otherwise fit him pretty well. He folded the rest of the clothing as best as he could, examined the leather garments before throwing them into the waste bin in the corner of the room. He certainly wasn't going to wear them again.

After one last look at the stranger in his mirror, he took the clothes and walked out of the bathroom, and towards Rodney who had gotten some sort of hand held computer from somewhere, and was twiddling with it. "Where can I put the rest of these?"

"I don't know. Your bed, maybe? I mean your bed here in the infirmary. We haven't gotten any quarters for you yet - you kind of slept in mine before, because you wouldn't stay away, even when I sent you somewhere else for the night - which was kind of weird, but, um -" Rodney cut off, glancing at him while putting the computer aside. "N-not that anything weird went on or anything!" he quickly assured.

Harry smiled despite himself, despite the situation. "It's okay," he said, and after moment he set the pile of clothes onto the end of the bench, and sat beside the shorter man. "I'm sorry," he said, nodding at the cast. "If I'd had any control…"

"Yes, well, at least you didn't kill me, which I appreciate a lot," the man muttered, waving the broken arm in dismissal. "It'll be annoying couple of weeks before I can get the cast off, but hey, still got an arm, so that's good."

The wizard nodded slowly, but couldn't help but frown - and not just at the cast, but also at the man's face, at the bruises and the band aid holding together almost healed cut. And, he knew, somewhere underneath his uniform, Rodney had broken ribs. Because of him.

For a moment Harry was seriously tempted to try healing them - the spell was already on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be unleashed - but he held back. Despite the kindness they had done for him, he didn't know these people - didn't know Rodney. Showing them magic without any idea of how they would react to it was probably not a good idea. So, feeling a little more guilty than before, he turned his eyes away from the shorter man's bruised face. "You've been taking care of me the last two weeks, right?" he asked.

"If it can be called that. You've been following me around like big puppy - not that you're any way puppy-like. It was kind of useful at times, you're good for heavy lifting and all - but it's of course better to see you all… aware and stuff," Rodney said quickly. "Anyway, I've since determined that the implant you had, it sort of hijacks your brain and takes over. There's a minor artificial intelligence involved, nothing too complex, just enough to make you understand orders and follow them, and follow some preset rules. Including the one about owner transference."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "And I just followed you around like a, uh, puppy," he said.

"More or less. It was unnerving at times - you hover, a lot. And when you walk? Not a sound. I've lost count on how many times I freaked out when I found you standing right behind me," the other man snorted, tucking his good hand into half-arms-folded position. "The most annoying thing was that you wouldn't eat unless I ordered you. Not to mention about other bodily functions. Another good reason to prefer cats." He shook his head, completely missing Harry's look of mortification.

"How… how many of there are in Evetia? Of people like me?" the wizard asked after a moment of silence.

"Thousands," Rodney said with a grimace. "Almost everyone has one. On scale from one to ten on the fucked-up-o-meter, the Evetians were solid nine and half. They use the implanted for everything from heavy lifting to fighting - and of course dying. When ever the Wraith come, they leave the Implanted out to the streets to be beamed up - it's disgusting."

Harry frowned slightly at that. The wraith? "Why were you there?" he asked quietly. "In Evetia, I mean."

"Exploration, meeting new people, finding new technologies - looking for allies. That's what we do - we go out and be bold. And get screwed, on regular basis," the shorter man snorted. "We probably won't be going back there, though. We kind of wore out our welcome when, you know," he motioned between himself and Harry. "You belonged to some grand duke of Whatsithill or something. He wasn't happy that I beat you."

"Oh," Harry murmured, both glad and oddly guilty. The idea of there being more people, used like puppets… Though, if the others were like he had been, with no knowledge of what they were doing, what was being done to them… well, it could've been worse. It could've been painful. It did raise the question of how the hell had he ended up there from all the way from Earth. That made no sense - unless the Evetia had the ability to travel between galaxies, and they had raided Earth for slaves, or something.

Rodney coughed softly. "Carson - doctor Beckett that is - said that you sort of insinuated that you aren't from this galaxy?" he more asked than stated.

"Hm," Harry nodded, thinking back to the _avernakis locas_. Regardless of the fact that he didn't even know the spell, not really, he was fairly certain it wasn't wrong.

"How?" Rodney asked, raising his eyebrows challengingly.

"When I figure it out, I'll let you know," Harry promised with a shrug, running his hand over his eyes and then his forehead and up to his hairline. The feel of his hair, pulled back and almost sleek was just… weird. But at least it wasn't in his eyes anymore. Probably hadn't been in years.

"So, uh… what is this place?" he asked after a moment, looking around. Atlantis, the spell had said, but that only told him the name of the place.

"No one's told you?" Rodney asked incredulously. "You are in _Atlantis_," he then said, lifting his chin a little with pride. "Or the Lost City of the Ancestors, as the Pegasus natives call it."

Harry frowned, thinking about it. "That really doesn't tell me anything," he said after a moment.

"Ancestors? Ancients? Alterans? Never heard of any of them?" Rodney prodded and then raised his eyebrows. "Wow, you really aren't from around here, are you? Well, um… The ancients were a super advanced race who build this place - and whole lot of others - thousands of years ago - Atlantis itself is something like five million years old. They're all dead now - Ancients I mean - or Ascended, though. They left Atlantis behind ten thousand years ago, when they were running away from a war that's still going on here, in the Pegasus galaxy. We found this place couple of years back."

The wizard nodded slowly, not really getting half of it. He looked around in the hall, taking in the strange walls and the odd hues of the material. It did look pretty alien, so, he supposed it made sense that an alien race from the past had build it or something. It was hard to wrap his head around numbers like _thousands_ and _millions_ though. "So, this place, you're not from around here, you just found it. And moved in."

"Well… Yes, I guess," the shorter man murmured, frowning slightly. "But in our defence, it was empty for ten thousand years before we came - and if we hadn't came here, the place would've gotten destroyed eventually. It was in the bottom of the ocean when we found it, and the power would've ran out eventually, leaving it vulnerable to the ocean."

"If you say so," Harry murmured, not really caring one way or the other. "And who are you people, exactly?"

"We? We're, uh… Well, the Pegasus natives call us Lanteans, which sort of works better here, but back in Milky Way - that's the galaxy _we're_ from - they call us Terrans. Or humans, or earthlings, or whatever," the other man made a dismissing motion with his good hand. "But basically we're just humans from Earth."

Harry blinked at that, turning to face him completely. "Earth?" he asked slowly. His Earth?

"Yeah. That's the name of the planet we're from - I know it's not particularly creative, but it works for us. It's also known as Terra, though," Rodney shrugged, and tilted his head, looking at him thoughtfully. "What about you?"

Harry eyed him for a moment, his mind not quite keeping up with _this_ turn of events. Humans, maybe from _his_ Earth. And muggles too, by the looks of it. He should've thought it - all the names he had heard so far were names he could've just as easily heard back home. Except maybe for his new one. Shaking his head, he turned his eyes ahead. "I don't know," he said, frowning. "Well, I do know, but right now… it's just, I'm not sure. I'm still a bit hazy," he lied, rubbing his neck.

"But you know you're in a wrong galaxy? How do you know that?" Rodney asked with disbelief.

"I checked," Harry shrugged awkwardly.

"How?" the other man demanded, folding his arms half away and tilting his head a little.

Harry glanced at him and had to smile. It was oddly Hermione like move - she had used to do that same arms-folded-head-tilt when they had been in their first year at Hogwarts, back before she had learned that book smarts wasn't everything. "It's just something - it's not important," he said, and smothered a grin at the disappointed frown the other man gave him. "So, um. Do you think I could see more of this place - or do I have to stay in the infirmary?" Harry asked, glancing at the soldier still hovering about.

"We can ask Beckett," Rodney said, grabbing his computer again and bouncing to his feet. "Come on."

Beckett, it turned out, had other plans. "I'm sorry, lad, but I don't feel comfortable with you leaving the infirmary yet," he said apologetically while Rodney huffed with indignation, again trying to fold his arms. "Also, Doctor Weir wants you to have a talk with Doctor Heightmayer - and considering what's happened to you, I agree with her one hundred percent."

"Doctor… Weir? Heightmayer?" Harry asked a little helplessly.

"Doctor Weir is our leader. Heightmayer, on other hand, is our shrink," Rodney snorted. "Is that really necessary - I mean, look at him, he's _fine_."

"A shrink?" Harry asked again, confused.

"Doctor Heightmayer is the healer of the mind - and yes, I do think it's necessary, as should you," Beckett glared at Rodney, before turning to Harry. "Doctor Heightmayer might not just help you with adjusting, but she might have ways to return your memories from the past years - I've seen stranger things happen."

"And you think he _wants_ to remember? Half a dozen years as a slave - hell, I'd love to lose memories like that!" Rodney snorted.

Harry frowned. He wasn't sure if he wanted to remember everything either… but knowing how he had ended up in Evetia, that was something he didn't just want to know - he needed to know it. "I wouldn't mind remembering the last two weeks," he said, thoughtfully, and at his side Rodney froze momentarily.

"Yeah… okay, yes. That makes sense," the shorter man murmured, fiddling with his computer for a moment. "Well then. I will just… I'll just head off then."

"Maybe you can show me around later?" Harry asked hopefully. He liked Rodney, he was straight forward and seemingly infinite well of information - and information was what Harry needed the most, right now.

"Maybe. We'll see, I guess," Rodney said, offering a wry smile, before turning and more or less running off. Harry looked after him with confusion and then turned to Beckett, raising his eyebrows with confusion.

The doctor sighed. "When you first got here, there was some talk… well, Rodney doesn't come off as the kindest of men," he explained. "He's loud and arrogant and bad with people and his main method of conversation includes sniping and insults, usually at the same time. Some people thought that having a… well, someone like you, that he would…"

"But he didn't," Harry said slowly.

"No, no, of course not. But, regardless of how he comes off, Rodney is fairly sensitive to what other people think of him - and those rumours hit him hard. Hard enough for him to try and forfeit your ownership many times," Beckett smiled faintly and then frowned. "If you hear anyone saying that he did something unseemly, you can rest assured that he didn't."

"I know," Harry mused, glancing to the direction where Rodney had gone. It wasn't just that he believed Beckett - he had been able to… feel it, in manner of speaking. Sense it, in Rodney's nervousness. It was kind of weird, actually. "So, now what?" he asked, turning to look at the medical doctor again. "Do I just wait here for this doctor Heightmayer?"

"Let me have a look at you first, I want to see that you didn't disturb the stitches while you showered…"

Harry sat obediently still for the doctor to check, before he was guided into a type of lounge area in the back of the infirmary. There were others there - a woman with her ankle in a cast, a man with a bandage over his eyes, and another man who was gingerly rubbing his side, all wearing simple robes and hospital-type of pyjamas while enjoying coffee or tea or whatever else they were eating and drinking.

After glancing around awkwardly, Harry made his way to a table right next to the window and sat down, staring out and to the seemingly endless expanse of ocean just beyond the high, futuristic buildings and the metallic piers. The city, as far as he could see, had a strange shape - the piers were oddly… blocky. As were some of the buildings - while others were delicate and futuristic. Harry wondered about it for a while mindlessly, before figuring that some of the buildings were probably older than others - if the city was as old as Rodney had sense, it made sense that the… ancients had rebuild some of them along the years.

For a while Harry spent imagining how the newer buildings had been created, how they had risen among the older ones all sleek and gleaming in comparison to the older ones. There had to be something same about the old and the new, though - there was, obviously, otherwise they wouldn't have fit. No more than a muggle born would've fit in Hogwarts without magic. Or muggle-raised half blood, for that matter.

Harry frowned a little at that, leaning his cheek into his knuckles. There was something about that sentiment that hit the chord. He could almost remember it, something about newness among the old, not fitting quite in. Maybe it had been him?

Maybe he hadn't really fit in Hogwarts, in magical world. Maybe that was why he was here now - maybe that was how he had ended up in Evetia? Maybe he had been banished? Could magic do that? Well, there were stranger things. If a man could split his soul and resurrect himself after death… And there was already all sorts of transport magic's out there. Floo, apparition, Portkeys - hell, wizards had the power to transport people from the realm of the living to the realm of the dead through an _archway_, body and all. If that was possible, then maybe transport to another worlds…

But to another galaxy?

No, he thought after a moment, closing his eyes against the glowing ocean view. No, that wasn't it. Why would he be banished? Except for the obvious fact that he had, if his memories were at all right, killed Voldemort by _waving his hand_ - and taken out Nagini while at it. That was scary, especially to him since he could remember doing it - remember being… powerful. Really, he wouldn't have been surprised at all if that had been scary enough to warrant him banishment from his very world - after all, if someone could do that to one person, then why not someone else? No one should be able to kill so easily. Even if the person killed deserved it.

And Voldemort _had_. Harry remembered that more clearly than anything else - the justice of his action. And it wasn't just what Voldemort had done or even what he could do - all of that was horrible, but it was only what had been and what could be. No, the most disgusting thing about Voldemort was what he had _been_. An abomination. Monster of magic that corrupted the magic around it - Voldemort body wasn't just _unnatural_, he had been an entity completely _against_ natural. Harry had been able to feel that, the disease of magic that surrounded Voldemort, that had followed him - infected the people around him. All the Death Eaters had had piece of that corruption inside them, little piece of vile, unnatural magic, growing, spreading…

Harry had _had_ to destroy it. Left alone, it would've spread - even if Voldemort would've died, it would've spread and grow. Inside the death eaters, inside the people they infected, until nothing healthy was left, until all magic was _rotting_. And so he had. Not just Voldemort, but every piece, every molecule of him - and of the disease that he had created. Every single…

He swallowed, rubbing his forehead, as he recalled it. Voldemort, Nagini, yes, he had destroyed them. But he had… he had touched others too. He had touched all the Death Eaters - through Voldemort, it had been easy, following the vein of the illness to its branches. He had removed it then - cutting the branches, burning them. The Dark Marks, every single one of them, he had completely disintegrated them.

And… quite possibly, the arms and the magic connected to them.

If it had gone down the way he thought it had, the way he felt it had - with people screaming in agony as he cauterized their very magic - then… then it did make some sense, that he could've been banished.

xx

Every once in a while I get a bad, bad notions.

So, the idea. Instead of going to the Etheral King's Cross of Etheral Whiteness, Harry Ascends. And, being new to the whole Ascencion thing, he doesn't bother to check out the rulebook, and instead he does something good. He is instantly punished for it by the other Ascended, because that's pretty much all the Ascended seem to do. Harry, though, is a bit different from them - being originally human and a wizard and generally very Harry-like - and they can't quite control him. Soon, the Ascended figure out they can't just leave him somewhere naked without memories - beause Harry is, well, Harry, there is a very strong possibility that he might Ascend again, and repeat his mistakes. So, instead, they go for something slightly more... permanent, and drop Harry off in a planet where he loses all his free will and sentience and essentially all chances of ever having a free thought, let alone enough of them to Ascend. And then, after several years of serious messed-upness, Rodney accidentally saves him. Kind of.

I wonder what it says about me that I really enjoyed the idea of this. Though, it was supposed to end up as slash eventually, so that might explain it. I miss writing slash.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	30. Four crossovers

Warnings; Character's non-death, crack and drunkenness, spoilers and creature Harry. Four different crossover bunnies.

**Reaper **

**(Stargate SG1 x Harry Potter)**

"I'm starting to see why the previous guy quit," someone sighed, as Daniel Jackson came to, only to find himself lying right in front of himself on a hospital bed, bandaged worse than a mummy. He blinked confusedly, looking at himself, then at his non-bandaged hands, and then finally up to the person standing across him on the other side of the bed.

"You," the person said pointing an accusing finger at him. "Are starting to be more trouble than you're worth."

"Excuse me?" the archaeologist asked, looking between his dying body and the youth before him. Except it wasn't exactly a _youth_, it couldn't be, not with the white skull paint - or maybe a tattoo - on his face, and elaborately technological scythe in his hand. Not with the oddest sensation that the youth was in fact older than any being had right to be.

"Seven times," the green eyed, white-painted black haired youth said, throwing his hands up in the air. He had skeletal version of white bones painted on the backs of his hands. "This will make it the seventh time you've died. I only got to die three times before the previous guy called quits!" he pointed the bone painted finger at Daniel again. It was very dramatic - or would've been, if it hadn't been so confusing. "Do you _really_ want this job?"

"Excuse me?" Daniel repeated helplessly. "W-what job?"

The young man blinked at him before motioning at himself, the black robe he was wearing and gave the technological scythe a shake. "What job? Hello! See this, clichéd getup? Skull, robe, scythe, remind you of anything?" he snorted, and went back to pointing. "I've been lenient with you before because it's always been a bit random - and so far you've always managed to kick the bucket off world so I've been able to give you the slack for that - for the whole going off and getting yourself killed some forty years ahead of schedule thing. But on my turf, and there's rules for all of this for a bloody reason. The other reapers are already getting on my case for favouritism."

"Wait, wait, wait. You're Grim Reaper?" Daniel asked with disbelief, and glanced around them. They were in the infirmary and before him he had his own dying body. "Oh, right, radiation poisoning," he murmured.

"Yes, yes, yes. Horrible and incurable, even by alien standards - and yes, I'm a Grim Reaper, Death, whatever you want to call it. To be precise, I'm Earth's _current_ Grim Reaper," the young, painted man scoffed. "And you are giving me a headache!"

"Does this mean I'm going to die?" Daniel asked, a bit disappointed.

"Yes. No. I have no bloody idea!" the Death growled. "You're not _supposed to_, not yet. You're supposed to die at the age of eighty two plus some random months on top of it, after full and extremely accomplished life. But no, of course you can't be nice enough to stick to the plan, you keep getting killed. Staff blasts, staff blasts and bloody staff blasts - with occasional land slide and lethal addiction thrown into the mix! I'm this close, see, _this close_," he indicated by showing the distance between his forefinger and thump, "of doing what the previous guy did, and just walking out and leaving you with the scythe. See how you like people messing with the Grand Design after a while!"

"Wait, you're not the original reaper?"

"I tell you're about to die, that you're not supposed to, and _that_'s what you ask?" the reaper asked with disbelief. "Typical, just typical! No, I'm not the original reaper, I'm just a successor - the previous guy was some bloke who had survived being hit by a lightning some eleven times and he wasn't the original reaper either," he snorted, waving around with the scythe. "That's what happens to us, we run into people like _you_, or _me_, or the _previous_ _guy_ who either keeps dying or won't die when they're supposed to - and we get pissed off and take a hike. I'm thinking of taking a hike right now!"

"Hey, hey, calm down. It's not like I want to die all the time!" Daniel said quickly, backing away and holding his hands up in surrender. "I don't want to die now either!"

"You could've fooled me, you suicidal self sacrificial idiot!" the reaper growled. "Merlin I finally understand why Snape hated me so much. Sheesh."

Daniel blinked and then sighed as it looked like the guy wasn't about to gut him with the scythe. "Snape? That's the previous guy?"

"No, just old teacher who had the unfortunate task of trying to keep me alive," the young reaper sighed. "I'm Harry Potter, by the way."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Daniel murmured. "So, uh. What happens now? Will I die for real?"

The reaper sighed, looking down to the hospital bed between them, and the dying body wrapped up in gauze on it. "Bloody mess," he muttered. "Survival instincts of a lemming, I swear. It was relatively easy to keep you alive off world - there's always those handy sarcophaguses somewhere near by, and the Nox were nice enough to help me without me ever needing to ask, and so forth. But it's a bit trickier on earth - and you just had to go and pick the most horrible and difficult way to die, didn't you? What possessed you to touch radioactive materials with your bare hands anyway?"

"Well, I couldn't just let the Kelownans die!" Daniel snapped awkwardly. "And if I hadn't, I would've died right there and then. Jack and Sam too."

The reaper sighed. "Right," he muttered, using the scythe to scratch his hair above his ear. "Hm. Well I suppose I could use the Tok'ra - your friends must've called them already. A hand device could stall the damage long enough for someone to miraculously produce a sarcophagus to save your ass with."

"Seems kind of far fetched, doesn't it?" Daniel asked.

"Seems like the only way to go to me, really. Unless I start pulling some heavy duty favours," the reaper answered. "Though there's a chance that even with a healing device and a sarcophagus, you wouldn't be healed well enough - and you need your health in the following years. Otherwise you'll just end up dying again and again and I so don't want that. You're too much work as you are."

The reaper snapped his fingers, making the bone paint in the back of them flash with white light. "How about the Nox? They should be able to fix this."

"Their Stargate is blocked, we have no way to contact them - and we don't go running off to our allies when ever one of us gets hurt," Daniel said, repeating what he had told Jack.

"You think I care?" the reaper asked, giving him a dirty green eyed look. Then he sighed. "I suppose I cant, though. the Nox are sensitive to radiation - seeing you now would probably make them all sick and then I'd have the reaper of the Nox world on my case too, I do not need that on top of you," he muttered and absently gnawed on his fingernail. "Okay, who owes me a favour… Maybe one of the Ascended…"

"Like Oma Desala?" Daniel asked with surprise.

The reaper blinked, glancing up. "Oh, that's brilliant," he said, brightening up. "She does, she really, really does after that whole debacle with Anubis - god, she owes me her _first born child_ after that." Grinning, the reaper held up his hand. "I'll be right back."

Daniel shook his head, watching how the reaper vanished, not quite certain what had just happened.

When Oma Desala appeared to him in a dream version of the Gateroom, he had already forgotten everything about it.

x

**Jedi**

**(Harry Potter x Star Wars)**

It wasn't Harry's fault, it really wasn't. It was _Neville's_ fault. Neville was handy person to have around to blame because One, it was always his fault and Two, no one could really blame him for it because Two Point One, he was Neville and Two Point Two, whatever he did, it usually resulted with him and the one blaming him being too far away from each other for Neville to actually to suffer the consequences of that blame. So, really, it was Neville's fault.

Snape, of course, didn't believe him. Not even when Harry presented a water proof argument of how, first of all, it had been Neville's potion that had exploded and, really, Harry was just an innocent bystander, just like Snape! And if they really had to go about blaming someone else except for Neville, the hey, Draco Malfoy had been throwing potions ingredients around, so it was probably him who had caused the potion to explode, and act the way it had.

Snape just glared at him and told him to shut up and keep walking. Harry said he was blaming him by default, and after that he couldn't say anything for six hours, after a way too precise silencing spell. Huffing silently and giving the elder wizard many glares, he stopped talking as they walked across the rocky desert towards what would hopefully be a town.

It turned out not only to be a town, but a town seemingly in middle of a small civil war involving laser riffles, energy shields and horsey-animals which looked more like lizards. It, more than the stars of the morning or the fact that there were two moons visible in the day time - or the fact that the sky was purple and the sand faintly green - keyed them in that they weren't in England anymore.

"To hell with this. I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm thirsty - I've spent an entire day with Harry bloody Potter in a bloody desert, I am _not_ going to stand for _this_," Snape growled, after shielding them both from few laser blasts. He released Harry from the silencing spell. "Go out there and do something to them, Potter!"

"Why me?" Harry asked indignant.

"Because I said so," the professor snapped.

"I'm fifteen year old kid! You're a professor! This is got to be against some law or something - child labour!"

"Yes - and for some reason universe decided to make you the defence specialist. Just get out there and do you bloody _hero_ thing!"

Well, Harry couldn't really argue against that, and while Snape went to find himself a drink, Harry went forth and discovered a near lethal way of using the spell _protego_ - which send the plasma bolts right back at their sources, resulting in two dozen destroyed laser rifles, which pretty much covered the entire attack force of both sides, leaving them unarmed except for some knifes and such. And with him standing in the middle of the small town after incapacitating just about everyone, no one felt like trying knifes.

"It's a Jedi! The Jedi have come to broker peace!" the towns people decided, and while Snape enjoyed local brew called Darkside of the Moon or something, Harry found out that there was a some sort of argument going on in the town about it's water rations. One half of the town wanted to savour it while another wanted people to actually bathe, which had resulted in all out battle. Apparently, the people were starting to stink.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do," Harry said, and created instant-cleaning doorway which cast automated cleaning charms on everyone and everything that went through it. He was instantly named hero. Again.

"You could've helped," he said, after finding the professor half drunk in the local pub.

"I wash hoping you'd get yourself killed, Photter" the greasy man answered, sounding a little bleary. "It turnsh out we're on a plany-plana-planet called Afa-sharak-habakar or shomething, and ap-aphaha-apharently no one here hash heard of Unithed Khindom. Or Earth."

Harry nodded, not surprised. The laser rifles had been a big clue. And the moon too. And the green sand. "I'm apparently a Jedi knight now," he said helpfully.

"Figuresh," the professor answered and passed out. Shrugging his shoulders, Harry left him to it, and went to found out more about Jedi.

In the following morning, he dragged highly-hangovered Severus Snape into a interstellar cargo vessel, that would take them from the small rocky world into bigger one - with some Jedi on it. The professor wasn't too happy about it - but that might've been because he spent first half of the trip in the fresher, throwing up. By the middle of it, he was blaming Neville Longbottom too, so maybe it wasn't a bad thing.

"Your companion?" another passenger on the of the cargo ship asked after Snape had staggered out and into his and Harry's shared cabin.

"Useless git of a teacher," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders - and after that, he was no longer called Knight Potter, but Padawan Potter, and Snape was called Master Snape, but Harry wasn't sure who had been demoted and who promoted or whether Snape even noticed. Probably not.

"Where the bloody hell are we even going?" Snape asked after managing to pull himself together.

"Some place called Chorusant - apparently we Jedi are from there."

"And what the hell is a _Jedi_?"

Harry shrugged. "No idea. I'm guessing it's their version of wizards. I just figured we might find a way to get back home there."

The man eyed him blearily before snorting. "I hate you Potter, and I hate Longbottom and if we're ever getting back to Hogwarts, Gryffindor house will never win the house cup for as long as I live."

"Duly noted," Harry nodded, watching with interest how stars whirled past the window of their small cabin. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know a spell to create a sword of light? We're apparently supposed to have one."

In the end, the Jedi of Chorusant had no way of sending back, nor did they believe that there was any place to send them to. Snape wasn't too impressed with that, especially not after the Jedi Council decided that they were both suffering from amnesia and confusion and Snape had obviously fallen to the dark side - but Harry, after realising that he'd be taught martial arts if he played nice, found he didn't mind.

"It shall be up to the student to lead," master Yoda said to him. "Lost your teacher is, padawan Potter. Guide him, you must."

"What ever you say, master Yoda, sir," Harry answered, trying not to grin maniacally down to the lightsaber he had been just issued with. "What ever you say."

x

**Ghost and the machine**

**(Harry Potter x Hikaru no Go)**

The heat was unbearable. If Harry had known that Japan would be so Merlin damned hot all the time, and humid, and _hot_, he might've reconsidered the whole deal. Sure, some of the shrines were cool and all, but in Tokyo he really felt how the place was most definitely not Britain. But it was part of the tour and after he had gotten his joust in Australia, hunting some poisonous reptiles, it was just as well that Ron got his weird tournament thingy.

"Oh, yes, a café," he sighed, noticing a sign. Hopefully it would have something cold he could drink. And air conditioning. And _ice_.

"Irasshaimase!" a woman welcomed him, as he stepped inside the surprisingly neat café - which, it turned out, was one of those internet cafes. Nodding in answer, Harry concentrated a little to get the translation spell running again, before walking up to the counter to order something cold and drinkable.

"How long would you like to use a computer?" the woman asked smiling, looking delighted by his Japanese - which, thanks to the spell, was perfect and even had the local accent. "It's two hundred yen for half an hour."

"Half an hour it is then," Harry nodded. "Thanks." He had no intention of using the computers as he had no idea how to use one, he just wanted the drink - but it was a internet café so it was only polite. And he got a table out of it, it didn't seem that there were any tables without a computer in the place.

After getting his drink, Harry picked the closest empty table and sank down. Soda with ice was gift from heavens, he decided as he slumped against the backrest of the chair. High, blessedly cold heavens. Humming with enjoyment, he sipped his drink before glancing at the clock in the wall near by. It wasn't even noon yet - Ron's weird tournament wouldn't be over for _hours_. What was he supposed to do in that time in a city trying to boil him alive.

"Heya, Mitani's big sister!" he heard a young voice call from behind him, as the door opened. "Are there any free computers?"

"Seems to be. Do you want something to drink, Hikaru?"

"Maybe later, thanks!"

as a shiver ran down Harry's back, he glanced over his shoulder to see a boy with bleached bangs eagerly claiming the computer right behind him. Beside the boy was what Harry at first thought was just a normal, albeit ridiculously long haired man in weird get up - it wasn't the first time he had seen that happen, in Japan or otherwise. But then he saw the slight breaking apart around the man's feet as he kneeled on the floor beside the boy's chair.

A ghost?

"Alright, let's see who we get to beat up today," the boy murmured, quickly starting the internet and logging into some site, while the ghost in weird get up leaned forward. While Harry sipped his soda absently, the boy opened some site and - and nearly snorted. It was the same goddamn game Ron hadn't been able to shut up about since that weird Chinese ghost back in Hogwarts had started teaching him in their seventh (and three quarters) year. Go or something.

"Yes, first challenger. I think we've tried this guy before," the boy murmured.

"Yes, yes, he was good," the ghost beside him agreed, and they leaned forward in unison, while Harry stared at them with disbelief. The ghost soon begun pointing the directions and the boy followed, placing the game pieces down as he wanted - and by the looks of the practiced ease they went about it, it wasn't the first time. A ghost playing a strategy game with a kid - in the internet? And the same bloody game Ron played? What were the odds?

After a moment of thinking about it, Harry rolled his eyes. About the same as him finding the rarest magical snake known to wizardkind - aside from Basilisk - when he was just looking to take a whiz. Which had happened half a month ago, of course. Right.

After a moment of thought, he plucked the straw from his soda glass and threw it at the kid to get his attention. The boy spluttered, as some of the soda got splashed across his neck, and turned around, looking wide eyed. "What the hell? What's the big idea, you foreigner bastard?"

Harry blinked and then grinned. Well, it didn't look like being haunted had made the kid sluggish or anything. Most haunted people got their energy zapped from them. "Whatcha doing?" he asked, his lips forming the Japanese words with ease.

"I'm playing, what does it look like I'm doing?" the boy asked, scowling at him. "What do you want?"

"I wanna know since when ghosts have started haunting the internet," said, nodding towards the ghost.

"What?" the boy asked, his eyes widening even more as he shared a look with the long haired - and fairly _pretty_ - ghost. "W-what ghost?"

Harry pointed. "That ghost, kneeling on the floor, in weird clothes, long hair, hat. You know, the one playing."

The boy opened his mouth, but looked a bit too shocked to get out more than small croak out. The ghost, who despite sharing the shock, seemed to handle it with better grace, shifted so that he was facing Harry, and asked, "You can see me?"

"Well… yeah. Sorry if I interrupted something - I've just never seen a ghost on the internet before," Harry shrugged, now feeling a bit sheepish. "All the ghost's I've seen were pretty old, mostly before the time of the internet, though, so that might explain it. Are you some sort new ghost? Recently deceased?"

Now the ghost too seemed shocked to say anything too. Harry blinked at them and took a sip of his soda, waiting for them to answer. "What?" he finally asked, when neither one of them seemed inclined to say anything.

"You can see Sai?" the boy finally asked, still wide eyed and shocked. Harry sighed, nodding and wondering if it would've been easier not to say anything.

Though on other hand maybe weird encounters happened to him for a reason, he decided later when introducing Hikaru Shindo and Sai Fujiwara to Ron, who was absolutely delighted to meet Sai - and more importantly, to play against him. While watching Hikaru, Sai and Ron lapse into rapid conversation about Go, Harry wondered how a muggleborn wizard with obvious power had gone without training - because seriously, Hikaru was _haunted_ and he barely seemed to even _notice it_.

Maybe he should pay local version of magical government a visit and see what was going on. It would give him something to do while Ron went nuts over the bloody game.

x

**Uncivilised**

**(Harry Potter x Temeraire)**

Harry barely moved when Gherni brought in the group of humans, only opened his eyes enough to see if they were another group of Chinese. He hadn't cared much for the Chinese - the white dragon had sounded a bit too sweet to him, setting his teeth on edge. When he heard Lester's pained whining and saw that he was clinging to the back of a big black dragon, he lifted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. Lester's wing was broken.

"Watch them," Arkady snapped at him before pushing forward to demand what was going on. Gherni was quick to tell what had happened - that they had seen the humans and swooped down to demand the passage fee they tended to harass out of everyone, when the avalanche had struck. The big black dragon, Temeraire, had helped them out and then demanded their assistance, and now him and the humans needed a place to stay, to recover. In return, they would give some of their animals to Arkady's pack, as a payment.

Harry huffed out a cloud of steam and shook his head, trying to get his slightly bleary vision to work so that he could get a bit better look at the humans. Even in dragon form his eyesight was miserably bad, but he tried his best to see. He didn't think the new comers were Chinese - all though, the black dragon certainly sounded like one, and looked like one. But the humans were most if not all western judging by their clothes - and, he noticed as he tilted his head to the side and listened to their conversations as they set up a camp and went about treating their wounded, speaking English with Brittish accents.

As Arkady deemed that Temeraire could of course stay with his humans - mostly because the black dragon was good at bribing and great deal bigger than any other dragon there, Harry stretched his back and sat back to his haunches to watch. As Arkady's pack went, he was the smallest dragon - maybe one of the smallest dragons he had ever seen in this strange, strange world. Temeraire would've towered easily over him, if Harry hadn't been sitting on higher ground. He wasn't too worried, though, because he had long since figured out that what in his world was a common feature in dragons made him very special here - and gave him bit of an upper hand, even against big dragons.

And it wasn't like he had cared about size - Dudley had drilled that into him early on.

Curious, he jumped down from the higher ledge to listen to the men talking. They were trying to get some of the flock to fetch them wood by the sound of it, while Arkady led some of the flock to fetch the pigs Temeraire had promised them. Harry didn't join either task - he didn't have the eyes for fetching - and instead settled near by to listen the humans talk. It had been ages - years and years - since he had heard English.

"We ought to put them all in the water," a man, a doctor perhaps, was saying, motioning at the men who were sneezing and by the looks of it about to fall ill because of the cold. Harry listened, wondering if he should breathe some fire to heat the cave up a little - like he did during the coldest times of the year - but he decided against it. Humans had some disturbingly violent reactions when they saw him breathing fire here - mostly they tried to capture him. It was what had eventually led him into living in the wilderness, it was simply much easier.

In the end he did nothing, only observed as the humans begun settling in, warming up, making food - one of them going as far as to cook the pigs for the dragons which, Harry had to admit, was _very_ nice. It had been ages since he had had cooked food - after all, who would cook for a dragon?

Then the discussion turned to the white overly sweet dragon whom Harry hadn't cared for. "How many were with her?" the human whom Temeraire talked with the most demanded to know. He seemed worried. "Who were they; did he see which way she left, after the mountains?"

Arkady answered, bewildered. The white sweet one had been very kind to them, offering them plenty of food for leading them through the mountains. Harry huffed a little steam at that, looking away. To him the whole event had been like watching a poisonous reptile - or Lucius Malfoy in female dragon form. It had been kind of creepy.

As he listened how the men and Temeraire worried over the white sweet one - Lien - he soon figured out that they didn't only share his opinion for her, but seemed to like her even less. "What did she do?" he asked in English, sending the men scattering backwards with wide eyes, while Temeraire turned to look at him with shock. "Lien. You really don't like her. So. What did she do?"

"Her captain tried to kill Laurence," Temeraire snarled. "And you are very sneaky. Why did you not speak before, when we were having so much trouble speaking with Arkady and the others, when you understand English perfectly well?"

Harry bared his teeth at the bigger dragon. "That wouldn't have been very sneaky of me, would've it?" he answered, making the bigger dragon huff with outrage.

When Temeraire managed to seduce Arkady and some of his supporters with stories of riches and fat cows in the following day, Harry listened with half a ear, rolling his eyes and grateful he had never gotten the dragon's lust for riches.

"You are indeed a very sneaky dragon," a soft voice interrupted his eavesdropping, making him open a single lazy eye to see Temeraire's crews guide walking towards him. As he stepped closer Harry could see he wasn't westerner - but he spoke perfect British accent. "I wonder however, how does a dragon of the Pamir Mountains learn such perfect English?"

"Wasn't born in the Pamir Mountains," Harry answered, eying the man sharply and swinging the tip of his tail from side to side. "Tharkay, right?"

"You are indeed correct," the man answered with a crooked smile and small, sarcastic bow. He looked Harry for a moment, sizing him up the same way Harry was sizing him up, before asking. "I was wondering if you would be willing to part some of your knowledge of these mountains and their passes, so that we may better assess our journey ahead."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Why not?" the man answered, and it sounded oddly like challenge. Harry's eyes narrowed further and his tail thumped sharply against the stone floor before he lifted his head, giving the man his full attention. A man who would challenge a dragon - even one as small as him - so openly?

Death wish, maybe? Or something else?

Maybe there was a reason to get interested in these people after all.

x

I just felt like writing random plot bunnies, so I did.

My apologies for grammar errors and such.


	31. Lightning flashing, SG1 x HP

Warnings; Goa'uld Harry. Spoilers. Stargate x Harry Potter crossover.

**Lightning flashing**

The young businessman was an impressive sight. It was not as much about the way he looked, though his age, the expensive black suit and calm expression did give him an oddly unnerving image - mostly, though, it was about his escort. As he sat down at the end of the conference table, he was surrounded by half dozen soldiers, all whom were aiming their semi-automatic rifles securely at his head, fingers near triggers and ready to fire any moment.

"I feel so very welcome," the young, green eyed man mused, smoothing his hand over the chest of his dark suit and smiling.

"You do? That's a pity, we worked so hard too. I knew we should've put tacks on the chair," the Brigadier General answered with a grimace, while sitting down on the other end of the long table, surrounded by his old team - most of whom were armed, the jaffa having even gone as far as to holding a Zat'nik'tel in his hand. "I don't want you here - no one here wants you here - so what say you we make this as quick as possible and maybe we don't have to shoot you?"

"Oh, but you can't," the young businessman said, smiling almost kindly at him. "Not unless you want the deaths of some couple of million of innocent Americans - and great deal of Europeans - on your conscience. There is a ship on orbit, and all it's sensors are keyed into my life signature - if my heart stops or is my signature disrupted by, say, stress? Those explosives will go off. Also, if I don't get out of this mountain in two hours, those explosives will go off. And if I so much as cut a finger nail -"

"We get it, we get it. Shut up," the General grimaced, shooting him an hateful look - only managing to make him smile wider. "Damn it, I hate snake heads."

A bespectacled man who was sitting on the General's right side shot him a slight look before turning to look at the young businessman. "We're all aware that you have the upper hand here," he said somewhat placating. "So how about we get to why you're here, Mr. Potter? Or do you prefer Hadad?"

"You know the name of my symbiote? Good job," the young man, not even twenty by the looks of him, clapped his hands together somewhat unenthusiastically. "You're being very rude, though," he added. "You should introduce yourself first, you know?"

"A Goa'uld who doesn't who we are? I guess our reputation doesn't precede us anymore. People, we got to step up the game - it seems like the opposition is starting to lose interest," the General asked. "Or, wait, does that mean that your incredible omnipotent godly powers don't work that well after all?"

"Omnipotent godly powers would be interesting," the businessman mused. "But yes, how could I possibly not know you, after all the things you've done?" He hummed, smiling at the General. "You are recently promoted Brigadier General Jack O'neill of course, former commanding officer of SG1 current commander of this lovely base, excellent pilot and a marksman, the preferred representative in negotiations with the Asgard and well known pain in the mikta for half of the galaxy."

He turned to look at the younger man at the General's side. "And who could possible not know Doctor Daniel Jackson, the man who opened the Stargate - and who died some dozen times according to all the death certificates. A well known polymath with skills varying from archaeology to linguistics with side order of psychology and anthropology, as well as some more recently learned military skills and self-learned talents with diplomacy and negotiations. Extraordinary linguistic with some thirty languages known, most known of which is no doubt the mastery of the allusive language of the Ancients. Also, only man alive who has Ascended and Descended with very little negate side-effects."

While Jackson frowned at him, blinking sharply, he turned to the woman. "And then we have, Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter, Doctor with a degree in astrophysics. The woman who, among other things, gave humans the ability of interstellar space travel with allusions to a intergalactic one - and of course created the generator necessary for powering a hyperdrive of such calibre. A known specialist of the Stargate and Goa'uld technology, as humans go anyway - and of course, the woman who blew up a star, destroying a fleet of Goa'uld mother ships and killing thousands and thousands while doing so. Of course, those were just Jaffa, so who's counting?"

He smiled and turned to the last person on the table with him. "And speaking of Jaffa, here we have Teal'c, the former first prime of Apophis, who once upon a time very nearly owned the galaxy. The originator of the Jaffa Rebellion, _the_ sholva," the Goa'uld shook his head almost as if with amazement. "He who would kill his god, is what you're known as, here and there. Many gods actually. Quite impressive."

While Teal'c gave him a cold, flat look, the businessman just smiled. "Well then. What else have you found out about me?" he asked, looking rather amused.

"Aside from the fact you're evil son of a bitch who manufactures radioactive, explosive cell phones?" the General snarled.

"Yes, aside from that. Though you have to admit, that's not bad achievement in and of itself. All you need to do is invent a new cool gadget, and people practically turn themselves into hostages. So easy," the young man mused, making the elder man snort with disgust.

"We know you're the one in control of the Trust, and that you were send here by Ba'al," Doctor Jackson said, cutting in and giving the businessman a narrow-eyed look. "And we know that since then you've infiltrated several companies and corporations, including Eloai Pharma, Drace Electronics and heavy construction machinery manufacturing company DDW, and dozens of others. You've started a corporation actually called _the Trust_ which now has several branches around USA, including Trust Airways, Trust Electronics, Trust Manufacturing, Trust Pharmaceuticals…"

"And I would congratulate you of good researching abilities, pat you on the back for a job well done and be very impressed - if this all wasn't information that's freely available on the Trust home page," the Goa'uld answered, shaking his head. "But I suppose it gives us something to start from," he said, turning to one of the soldiers. "Has my briefcase and it's five extremely lethal folders full of such horrifying weapons as sheets of paper been cleared yet, or will I be reduced to sketching everything on white board?" he asked, snorting. "Or do you even have a white board here? Shall we go with pantomime? Or maybe shadow puppets?"

"Get the case," O'neill snapped, nodding to one of the soldiers who saluted and excited the room. "How unlike a Goa'uld, to actually need notes for their monologues," he noted sarcastically.

"Would be, if I had been intending to monologue," the young man answered, shaking his head and leaning back. He gave the conference room around them a thoughtful look. "All the trouble this little military bas has given to Goa'uld all around the galaxy… Honestly, I'm surprised it's so humble."

"It's _effective_ and that's all we need from it. Now, are you going to tell us what you want?"

"Not quite yet. I need my notes," the businessman answered, grinning. "You wouldn't want to rush me, would you, General?"

"I would happily rush you through the Stargate onto a planet on the orbit of a nice little black hole," the man answered with flat look.

"If I didn't know any better I would say you didn't like me, General," the young Goa'uld said, wide eyed and smiling as he glanced to his left, where the soldier had returned with his briefcase. "Excellent. Thank you _so_ much, lieutenant, I really truly appreciate your swift work ethics," he said, accepting the case and planting it inform of him. "Can't say the same about your sense of organisation," he mused, as he opened the case and found the folders inside in something of a disarray. "Well, no matter."

As the unnerved SG1 watched, he took five folders from inside the case, closing the lid and throwing four of the folders across the long table. "Some reading material. Try not get too ahead of yourself with them, I plan to go through most of them verbally," the young man said, lowering the case to the floor and opening the fifth folder.

The first two sheets of paper, pinned together with a paperclip, showed designs of a space craft, also known as X-303 - with a bullet point list beside it, point each and every system flaw in the design. "What's this?" Samantha Carter asked, scowling.

"I don't know. What do you think it is?" the young man asked, smiling benignly.

"It looks to me like material you shouldn't have - and finding you in possession of which should give us more than good incentive to lock you up and throw away the key," the General snarled. "How did you get this?"

"A lab technician in Area 51, name of whom I shall not divulge just now. He was in bit of a financial bind and I offered my aid for him - for a small favour," the Goa'uld said calmly. "I've looked through your more recent designs and system schematics of the X-303 and the plans of the X-304 and have to admit, you've gotten to a good start - even if more than slightly limping one. There's more flaws in the designs that I wrote down here, but these are the ones more easily exploited, so I would suggest that you took some time to look into them."

"Carter?" O'neill asked, turning to the Colonel and frowning.

The woman was still reading through the list. "Sir, I… I can vouch for maybe four of these - we've been looking into correcting them. We've been limited by time and resources, though -" she cut off, closing her mouth tightly and giving the businessman an uneasy look before lowering the papers to the table. "Why did you give us these?"

"To set a right type of mood for this meeting. Let's say that it's an appetiser for what's to come," the young man answered and threw a glare at Daniel Jackson, who was leafing through the rest of the files in his folder. "Now now, Doctor Jackson, let's not read too far ahead. Don't you know that's how know-it-alls are born?"

"But this is -" the man started, trying to pull one of the papers out.

"Not just quite yet. Let's try and go through this logically, shall we? There's some stuff we need to go through before we get there, so be patient," the Goa'uld snorted, and turned to look at the General, who was trying to peek into the other papers in his folder. "General. Rushing," the young man snapped chidingly, making him drop the folder down.

"Fine, in order then!" O'neill snapped back, pushing the folder few inches away from himself. "Would your highness like to start now?" he asked.

"Why not? First, though… When you were researching me, what, pray tell, did you find about Harry Potter?" he asked, motioning at himself.

There was a moment of quiet, as the SG1 shared looks. "Not much," Doctor Jackson finally said. "We did find several Harry James Potters across the world, but none of them fit your age or description. We came into the conclusion that it was a presumed identity, possibly taken from the son of Kathleen and Richard Potter from Detroit, who, along with their son, died in a car accident four years ago."

"Hm. Not that good with researching after all. Perhaps this would help," the young man answered, chancing accents in mid sentence from natural American accent into perfect English one. "You see, Doctor Jackson, I am most definitely not from Detroit - or USA in General. That, though, wouldn't have helped you in the slightest, because of time differences and the fact that Harry James Potter of this world was never born - in fact his father and his father's father were never born."

While the SGC personnel around him gave him odd looks, he took the next piece of paper from his own folder, which showed a sketch of an archway with a ragged curtain hanging from it, along with a short description of it. "I don't suppose you would know what this is?"

"Very poorly made garden ornament?" O'neill asked, but shared uneasy look with Colonel Carter.

"Close, but no cigar. This is what was known in my world as the Archway of Death. Yes, I know, very descriptive name," the young man agreed with the incredulous looks he got. "But it was spot on. It was used for executions by my people some four hundred years back, before it fell out of use. This was one of the last of the Archways that survived, and it was held for study in the British ministry for it's unique properties. Over the years, hundreds of experiments were conducted on it," the young man answered.

"It's an alien device?" Carter asked.

"It is not one I have ever seen," Tea'lc informed, when the people in the table glanced at him. "The Goa'uld have never used such a device."

"That's because it isn't. It was created by humans something like three thousand years ago - in timeline of _my Earth_. Do stop trying to guess, though. This isn't a game show - it's more like show and tell, really. I am going to tell you what it is and what it does," the young man answered, snorting. "You don't really know how this thing was made - and honestly, I have no idea. All I know that the people who went through it died instantly - it was device of lethal punishment, after all. Anyway, that was how it was in the beginning. The method of making these things was lost ages ago, and so the government had people study it, learn it. Test it."

"Your Earth? What are you saying, that -"

"And now I find myself regretting saying that I'm not going to monologue," the young man sighed and glared at the Colonel. "From here on, this will be a monologue. That means I will be talking and you will be quiet. So, kindly wait until I'm finished to ask questions. Can you do that?"

"Asshole," she answered.

"Thank you," the Goa'uld smiled. "So. As I said, the device was studied and tests were conducted. One of those tests though, altered it's construction and eventually it's function. Originally, it killed a person by sending them into a dimension human body is ill equipped to survive, causing immediate disintegration. After these tests, though, the Archway breached through the dimension and into an alternate reality."

He glanced at Carter, who opened her mouth, and she quickly shut it again. Amused, he nodded to her unspoken sentiment. "Yes, it gained a function similar to that of your quantum mirror device, though I imagine the science is a bit different," he said, folding his arms and leaning back. "And, as I am sure you are all now thinking, yes. I fell through the archway."

"You were sentenced to death?" O'neill asked.

The young man gave him an unimpressed look. "Rushing, General, rushing again. But to answer your question, no, actually I walked through it myself - after figuring out that it had changed and no longer functioned as a easy way to death, as it was," the businessman answered. "I was, well. I had a type of contract with the local government and part of that contract was unlimited access to the archway for reasons that are none of your business. I was studying the archway when I realised that it had changed and had turned into transportation device instead."

"So, you're from alternate reality?" Daniel Jackson asked.

"How is that you people run the most secret military base in the known world when you can't follow a simple order?" the Goa'uld asked, disbelievingly. "All I asked for was quiet, how hard is that?"

"Around here? Impossible. Answer the question," the General snapped.

The businessman rolled his eyes. "Yes. I am from alternate reality. One fairly different from this one - though it has similar elements, say, countries and languages and such. History is bit different here and there. My world, as far as I know, never knew of the Goa'uld. And your world doesn't have the hidden world in it, which was bit of a disappointment for me when I came through to discover that I had no way of going back," Potter mused.

"So, you want the Quantum mirror so that you can gyepo back? Let me guess, since the place has no Goa'uld, and probably no SGC, you could rule over the place as undisputed master? Give me a break," the General snorted.

"Guessing again, and no. I have no interest of going back - I'm just trying to lay the ground work for the next part of my presentation which is constantly suffering interruptions," the Goa'uld sighed. "Perhaps I should've gone with my original thought and gone to the president directly. Or maybe some other government. It might have been easier - maybe the Russians can listen quietly."

O'neill just snorted. "Just on with it. Or better yet, cut the bullshit and get to the point."

"The point," the young man muttered, snorting. "Alright then, I come from nation of natural Hok'taur - which, by the way, are much more powerful than the artificial kind thanks to the fact that mother nature is the best eugenics specialist out there. The Goa'uld Hadad managed to track me down because of my brain waves that were recorded after a small accident I got into soon after arriving and had to go to hospital afterwards, and when he tried to take me over he found out why Hok'taurs make bad hosts." He smiled sweetly. "Do you want to move on to the corporative decisions I've made since taking over the Trust, and the re-inventing I've done, or shall we go over the production line of the Trust Incorporated? Or perhaps the plans for commercial space station, the Faith, which I am already more or less building right behind your backs? Or the line of interstellar space ships I've already started producing? Hm?"

There was a short quiet, as the SG1 stared at him. "Can we go back to the nation of Hok'taur?" Jackson asked carefully.

"Aw, but I was going to start talking about the new inertial dampeners I'm working on," the businessman whined and grinned, when Teal'c growled at his direction. "I think I might bring out the worst of him," he mused, eying the Jaffa. "So, Hok'taur. I won't go into details, but I come from a branch of humans who are born naturally as Hok'taur - of course we had a different name for it, as we had never even heard of Goa'uld, and really, we're not as advanced as one would think. We just have abilities."

He demonstrated by lifting the folder into air, and then withdrawing his hands and leaving it there, hovering about his suitcase. He grinned over it. "And this is the moment when you realise the guns you're aiming are all useless against me and panic. Just remember those millions of people holding their nice little mobile-bombs next to their ears, would you?"

"Airmen!" the General snapped, and they all took a step forward - one going as far as to place his gun barrel against the businessman's temple.

"Oh please. If I intended to use my powers to do something, I believe I already would have. And before you ask - no I don't know telepathy. I was absolute pants as mind arts and becoming a Goa'uld hasn't really changed that," the young man said, pushing the gun barrel aside with a single finger, grimacing like it was something dirty. "I can rig machine guns to jam and blow to their user's face quite easily though without ever even needing to touch them, so be careful where you point those things."

"You said Hok'taurs make bad hosts," Jackson said, giving uneasy look at the soldiers around the businessman. "Why?"

"Because some of us can learn to resist mind control," the young man answered. "Hadad found that out a little too late, I'm afraid. That is to say after leaving his old host and trying to take over my body while I was still in hospital and in a coma after some idiot ran over me with a truck. I do admit, though, I appreciate that he healed me so nicely. I wouldn't have half of my face without him."

"Wait, you're saying Hadad isn't in control of you?" Carter asked suspiciously.

"And he found you while you were in hospital?" Jackson asked.

"Yes. Being Hok'taur doesn't stop stupid shit from happening to you. About two months after I arrived in this world, I got into an accident. The doctors did a good job on me, I suppose, very thorough job after finding out that I lugged pocket full of gold with me. My world's currency, you see, much more valuable on this side it turns out," the young man rolled his eyes. "It wasn't quite enough, though, and I was nearly brain dead. Still, I had just enough brain power for my EEG to show an interesting little blip."

He took out another sheet of paper - which showed three different EEG patterns. "That's me on the top and for reference, that's General O'neill's EEG pattern from when he had the knowledge of the Ancients downloaded into his brain - and below it you see Cassandra Fraizer's EEG from when she was exhibiting psychic abilities."

"They don't match," Jackson noted, sounding a little disturbed by the fact that the young man had gotten access to the files.

"Of course not. What they gained its just vague mimicry of what I was _born_ with, what I've studied for years to master," the Goa'uld snorted. "Hadad had kept an eye out for these type of things - he didn't think he'd find anything, but Ba'al send him to infiltrate Earth for a reason. For a Goa'uld Hadad is a very thorough individual. Anyway, he got his hands on my EEG and he made a beeline for me. He practically bought me from the hospital keeping me and while I was still incapacitated, he slithered in."

"But couldn't take control of you, is that what you're saying?" Carter asked, frowning.

"Oh, he had control. For about four hours - just enough time to fix my body. Then I took over again," the young man answered, smiling smugly. "Of course, his people didn't know that - and by the time they found out it was a bit too late for them."

"You had them killed?" O'neill asked. "I don't believe this. Any normal person would've panicked if they had noticed they had a snake in their heads."

"It wasn't that shocking, really - I have history with possession. And snakes," Potter said, now looking slightly uncomfortable. "And in my world you learn to take advantage of everything given to you, no matter how orthodox. Hadad gave me wealth, power and connections like I could've never imagined - not to mention all the knowledge he possessed. And I am bit of a spiteful bastard, so I decided to make use of it. And, for the record, I didn't kill any of his people. I just… brainwashed them a little," he added, the smug grin returning. "Oh, don't look at me like that - they're mostly Goa'ulds or just greedy power-hungry bastards with illusions of grandeur. They deserved it - and you wouldn't believe how much better I made it for their families, really."

"You can brainwash people? With your powers, I assume," Daniel asked. "I thought you said you didn't know telepathy."

"Telepathy and mind control are two different things - and where I come from any Hok'taur worth their powers knows how to erase memories. It's practically the way of life back there," Potter shrugged.

"So you… are controlling the Trust?" Colonel Carter asked. "By mind control?"

"Every operative on Earth, yeah," the young man agreed.

"Since when?"

"About a year or so ago. So sorry for not introducing myself sooner - I've been a bit busy since. I'm sure you understand."

There was a moment of quiet before O'neill sighed. "Okay, say I believe you. You're some bad-ass Hok'taur from another world, who got taken over by the Trust and who then took over the Trust in return. Even if it was true, that doesn't change the fact that you're greedy power-hungry bastard yourself."

"Yeah. The way you put it, it makes you sound worse than the Trust," Jackson agreed.

"Well, I'm not actually trying to convince you otherwise here. You will have hard time finding greedier or power hungrier bastard than me - though I'm sad to say, my parents were married, so maybe I'm more of a greedy power hungry arse. It's the result of my dark, tragic past and my abusive childhood," Potter agreed with a mockingly solemn look. "Though the Goa'uld thing possibly might've made me a bit worse. It's hard to tell."

"Aw, great. Just what we need," the General muttered.

"So, um. What do you want, exactly?" Carter asked, scowling at him. "Why come to us now - and why implant explosives in people's mobile phones?"

"I didn't actually implant anything - the TR-100 series are all manufactured with that particular add-on," the businessman grinned. "But yes, I didn't come here just to flaunt my resume - though actually maybe I did, a little bit. I don't get the chance to do that very often - and be truly honest about it - you see," he mused, leafing through the papers and taking out another one. "I'm thinking we could take a small look at the Trust Incorporated now, if you wouldn't mind."

"Why? We already know you manufacture and sell derivations of alien technology," Carter said.

"I suppose you do. Have you thought of why, though?" Potter asked, glancing through the sheet of paper with a list of Trust Inc. products in it.

"For the profit?" Jackson asked.

Potter snorted. "With the manufacturing costs? I have to personally manufacture the machines to manufacture my machines. You have no idea how much money is lost in that process, when trying to realise alien technology through good old Earth means - and not make it either entirely too big or too strange," he rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't believe how suspicious people can be about new things. Or how quick they are to scream that they are harmful or cause cancer or whatever."

"Your cell phones probably do cause cancer - to the factor of ten," O'neill snorted. "If I had my way, all your factories would be bombarded from the orbit."

"That would be nice little explosion, don't you think? All those materials," Potter chuckled, not even looking up from the file he was reading. "We could talk about that all day, I would really love to, believe me, but I do have other things I wanted to discuss."

x

This was such a fun idea. Was supposed to be just oneshot, one of those quick but plotty fics which basically go over the whole plot during a conversation. But then this one died on my hands, so I shall throw it out there.

So, Harry got himself transported to alternate universe via the Veil of Plotdevice and after that he got ran over by a truck and then Goa'ulded by Hadad, Ba'al's underling - except it didn't go that well for Hadad, as he soon finds himself being the thoroughly abused party of that particular symbiosis. Now, Harry has suffered years and years of manipulations so, finding Hadad's knowledge and realising what he could do with it, he decides that it's high time he does some manipulation of his own - and then he goes forth and manipulates the Trust under his control via obliviations, compulsions and many many imperios. After which, he sets out to create the most epic corporation ever, naming it the Trust for just kicks and using all that juicy Goa'uld knowledge to create new technology, medicine, etc etc etc, and in process turning himself into one of the richest and most influential people of the planet.

Then he runs into a bit of a yam because he can't start a line of Trust Interstellar when the SGC and USA government would probably be against that, so he plots some more. Thankfully one of the Trust Electronics devices had recently been estimated extremely lethal by our resident genius, Samantha Carter, who mis-understood the radiation the TR-100 cell phones emit and figured out that they have small bombs inside them (when in fact they have small derivation of the Goa'uld healing technology meant to counteract effects of your every day radiation and, actually, increase human lifespan by couple of years, courtesy of Harry's saving-people-thing). Harry though doesn't let the SGC know that, and instead uses it to get into SGC so that he can strike up a bargain, basically blackmailing himself inside without actual blackmail material to use.

In the end, his ultimate goal is is to get a defence contract with the Homeworld Security so that he can start producing interstellar warships and such for the SGC and IOA and whatever - and on the side, build some commercial space stations and start a galactic pleasure cruise company, etc etc etc.

Make no mistake, though - when Harry says he's a greedy and power hungry arse, he means it. It's just that his ultimate ambition is to turn Earth into galactic superpower - with him being the supplier of that superpower's defence technology, of course. So, basically he is doing what the Achen promised and never intended to deliver, and what the Tollan and the Tok'ra thought Earthlings were too primitive to have - and he goes the most assholeish way about it possible.

My apologies for possible grammar errors


	32. Some crossovers again

Warnings; Crack, OOCness, more crack, death of a character sort of, and weirdness. Oh and spoilers, of course.

**Some crossovers, again**

**Alchemists and such**

**Harry Potter x Full Metal Alchemist**

It didn't take longer than couple of days in the Central for Harry to figure out that the Alchemy of his world and the Alchemy of _this_ world were two completely Alchemies. Not that he knew much about the Alchemy of his own world, of course, but he suspected it was rather like advanced potions with some chemistry and astronomy, some Arithmancy and maybe runes thrown in. Here it was more… well, he had no idea, but definitely not as much about potions or chemistry. Though maybe it was, but without cauldrons, fires, phials and stirring rods.

It was actually more like transfiguration, but with pretty symbols and light show thrown in for fun.

It was also so goddamn confusing that he had no hope of understanding any of it. Sure, he managed to read _some_ alchemical texts thanks to very excellent translation charms, but reading was far from understanding. It was like first year student taking a book about advanced healing and trying to figure out what the weird long words all meant - complete bollocks.

Who the hell could draw perfect circles with a free hand anyway?

It didn't take long for him to give up. What he heard in passing about Alchemy and what little _introduction_ books he had found all seemed to indicate the same thing - you had to start young to ever make any good of what you learned. Like, six year old, young. That gave you ten years to learn the basics, another ten to try and master them and then, maybe, once you were in your late twenties, you could be called an alchemist. It was either that or being born a genius of unfathomable intelligence. And Harry, being twenty four and fairly average in the intelligence department, was neither. And he doubted his excellent good looks would help him either.

Which meant that Alchemy was not probably the right way to go about trying to figure out how to get home. At least he hoped it wasn't. Really, really hoped so.

"Complete bollocks," he muttered some time after giving up and finding a nice type of pub near the centre of the Central - and what kind of name was Central anyway, it was like calling London "the Capital". He had to admit, though, they had decent whiskey. Not quite fire whiskey, but almost. "Complete bollocks, that too," he murmured, frowning at his glass.

"What is?" the bartender asked, giving him a look.

"Central. What kinda name is Central? And Alchemy. It's complete bollocks too," Harry snorted.

The bartender gave him a look. "This might not be the best place to bring up that sort of opinions," he said. "Didn't you look at the sign before you came in?"

"Phish," Harry answered and glanced around himself. Okay, yeah, maybe not a good place, looking by all the blue-uniformed bastards with pocket watches. "I don't get the watch thing," he murmured, leaning his cheek heavily to his palm. "What's a watch gotta do with Alchemy? That's like… like giving an architect a, uh… a compass! Actually, no, an architect could probably make use of a compass. Hm. A spinning top. Yeah. Giving architect a spinning top. Give alchemist a spinning top too, see if I spinning care."

"Around here those are fighting words, you know," another voice joined the conversation while the bartender rolled his eyes at the wizard and walked away. "You should watch yourself; speaking like that you might get burned."

"Spinning care, I do. Spinningly," Harry answered, turning to look at the speaker over his shoulder. "Spins to you too," he added, seeing another blue-clad alchemist. The man, dark haired and eyed and fairly pale in comparison to the majority of the others Harry had seen in the central, gave him an amused smirk, to which Harry answered with a snort.

"What do you have against alchemists?" the man asked.

"Got nothing against alchemist- they can alchemise all they want for all I care. And make spinning tops, whatever. It's alchemy," Harry answered, pointing at the man with his whiskey glass. "Who got off making it so bloody complicated? I'd really like to know. Seriously."

"Why?" the man asked, smiling amusedly in to his own glass while eying Harry over it.

The wizard rolled his eyes. "Why do you think? I want to give them a _spinning top_, of course," he answered.

The dark haired, dark eyed man laughed. "Maybe you have something against spinning tops, rather than alchemists. Or architects," he noted. "You're very hung on that."

"It got stuck, yeah. Never actually seen an actual one, though. Fake one though, except it wasn't a spinning top at all, but this… whirry… whirry detector thingy. It was years ago," Harry murmured, scowling while trying to remember. Then he shook his head. "Whatever," he muttered, and tried to take another sip, only to find his glass was empty. While dropping it to the counter, he gave look at the man still lingering next to him. "Do you want something, except to laugh at my drunkenness? Because if that's it, there's more to come," he added, and called for the bartender.

"Just wanted to see if I would have to discreetly advice you to relocate elsewhere before you would start a fight," the man answered, and then offered his white-gloved hand at him. "Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang," he introduced himself. "An alchemist," he added with a smirk.

Harry eyed him for a moment. "Former Captain Harry Potter," he answered, shaking the man's hand. "And see if I booming care," he added.

"Captain? You were in military?"

"Pfft. Law enforcement… force, corps, whatever. Elsewhere - far away. Not here. Captain - leader of division," Harry sighed at the fond memory. "High risk capture and retrieval division. Aah, good times, good times. Bad guys and hostage situations."

The colonel gave him a considering look. "But not any more?"

"Got fired. Long story - mostly not my fault, only the part where I failed to follow orders. They were really stupid orders, but Chief wasn't too happy," Harry sighed, thinking back and then frowning. "Nah, I don't wanna think that - bad memories." Shaking his head, he turned to look at the man. "Waddyawant?"

"Infinite wealth and long life," the man answered amusedly.

"Go make some gold and Elixir of Life then," Harry snapped, waving his hand at him. "Go do _Alchemy_ stuff. Get a spinning top or something. Leave me alone."

The colonel just smirked with amusement at him. "But you're so much more entertaining."

"Well, if you want to hang around and be nosy, the at least get that bloody bartender bring me a drink. I think he's ignoring me."

"You might've insulted him. He used to be a national alchemist."

"Well of _course_ he did."

x

**Balls to you**

(Harry Potter x Dragon Ball)

Harry threw the weird orange ball in his hand, catching it absently. Weird was about right - he couldn't really say if the thing was made of glass or something else - or how, no matter where you looked at it, you could always see the three stars inside it from the exact same direction. It was kind of like it was see through - but in the same time, it was completely orange. How did that work, exactly?

"Ahh, what ever, it's pretty," he murmured shrugging his shoulders and throwing the ball into air again. Pity it wasn't made of food. Or map. Or something. He had been lost in the wilderness for days now and he was starting to get tired of magically enlargened berries. Some real food would've been nice. And, well, a kitchen and a house and hopefully a settlement to go with it, of course - preferably with a bath attached to one corner or something.

He sighed to himself. "Oh well, let's keep going," he murmured, pushing the ball into his pocket and reaching for his broom again. After kicking off, he started making his way east again, hoping that if he kept one single direction he might finally encounter something like road or field or anything - and hopefully not fly in circles. That had happened some in the first couple of days.

As he flew, he kept his eyes on the ground, until he saw something interesting. "Ooh, what's this," he murmured, hovering in place and peering downwards. "A dust trail? Excellent. Maybe it's a person, or a car or… something." At this point he'd settle on animal - as long as it wasn't one of those bloody lizards and could be easily beaten and eaten.

It wasn't a lizard, or an animal, but a scooter - with a young blue haired woman riding it. Excellent.

Harry quickly flew down and beside the woman, who was single minded looking forward. "Hey, excuse me?" he called wind. "Could you give me some directions? I'm a bit lost -"

"Eek!" the woman squealed, giving him a wide eyed look and sending the scooter she was driving veering dangerously to the side. Quickly Harry caught her by the waist and hoisted her up, just as the scooter went out of control and crashed into a large boulder. The woman gave him a wide eyed look, and then screamed.

"Oi, oi, oi, take it easy!" Harry said, quickly slowing down and dropping her gently to the ground. "I didn't mean to startle you. Calm down, would you?"

"You - you - you… _flying_! A _broom_! Flying _on a broom_!" she cried, backing away so fast that it almost looked like backwards running. "You're, you're -! Some kind of -!"

"Wizard, yes, never mind that. Directions?" Harry asked, hoisting the Firebolt to his shoulder and pointing the way she had came from. "Town that way, maybe? I'm a bit lost."

"Lost? You, what - hey! My scooter! You made me crash my scooter, and now you're asking me for directions?" the blue haired girl asked in disbelief. "Compensation, I demand compensation - that was an expensive scooter, you know, and how do you think I'll be able to keep going now that it's complete _trashed_? Oh, I bet you were going to just leave me here like this after getting what you want - oh, my god, what do you want? To take advantage of a helpless girl? Oh my god, someone help me, rape, _rape!_ Stay back - I have mace!" she said, quickly rummaging through her pockets and bringing out a can of some sort of spray. "I'll give you a face full of this so just stay back, pervert!"

"Erm," Harry answered, giving her an astonished look. "Okay, um. First of all; scooter," he said, taking out his wand and fixing I with a _reparo_. "Second; mace," he continued, and summoned the thing from her hand. "And third; directions. Town, location, I would like to know, if you could be so kind."

"W-what? What did you - how did you -"

"Magic, wizard, alakazam, etcetera. Directions?"

The girl just blinked at him, before getting distracted by a sound coming from her pocket. Quickly she pulled it out, and let out another squeal. "You have a Dragon Ball!"

"A _what_?" Harry asked, confused again.

"A _Dragon Ball_. Orange ball with a star or stars in it!" the girl said, grinning. Then she suddenly got a thoughtful expression and turned oddly coy. "Um. I have one too, see?" she said, pulling out a similar ball, but with two stars in it. "See, these are. Um. Family heirloom! Yes, and they got scattered across the globe by accident. I'm trying to gather them, but I've had little luck and…" she turned soulful eyes to Harry, who actually had to take a step back at that. "Hey, mister, could you give me the Dragon Ball? It's really important to me…"

"What?" he asked. He was starting to get a headache from her mood swings. After a moment of trying to figure it out, he groaned and shook then his head. "Okay, all I want is directions. I don't care about your… balls in the slightest."

"Then you don't mind giving it to me?" she asked, grinning.

"_Directions_," he answered flatly.

She huffed. "This is no way to treat a lady."

"No lady screams rape with no cause. Directions," Harry said again, folding his arms.

The blue haired girl gave him a scowl now, folding her arms in return. "How about Dragon Ball for directions?" she asked.

"I don't know. I'm kind of fond of it," Harry answered, though he had only found it little while ago and had no idea if it was valuable or anything. "Maybe if you have something to trade it for, except information. How about a map? I would really like a map."

She narrowed her eyes for a moment, before smiling brightly and rummaging through her pockets again and producing a neatly folded map. "Tadaah. Now, Dragon Ball."

"Let me see that thing first," Harry answered, not about to be tricked, and glanced over it first. It looked genuine. "Okay, fine. The ball for the map," he said, and pulled the ball from his pocket. "Have at it."

"Excellent! Here you go," the girl said, happily handing the map over. "Pleasure doing business with you. My name is Bulma Brief, by the way - if you find any more Dragon Balls, look me up, okay?"

"Harry Potter - and yeah, sure, I'll do that," he answered, already looking over the map while the girl skipped to her scooter and got ready to go. "Hey, where are we on this thing?" he asked, but the girl had already restarted the engine, and was speeding away.

He was pretty sure he didn't imagine the "Sucker!" she called back at him.

x

**Behemoth sleeping**

(Harry Potter x Stargate)

The Ys woke up once every year. Its sensors whirred and clicked and machinery hummed deep in the ocean bottom, as it brought itself slowly online, the process old and familiar and well practiced over the course of the eons.

First sensors, because those were the most important. If there was something wrong with the sensors, the Ys would launch repair drones to correct whatever was the problem. Once, when Ys had woken up, it was to found a wooden vessel crashed on top of the sensor panels - it had taken approximately fourteen planetary resolutions remove the vessel and repair the panels. Another time, the Ys had detected radioactive material so near that it had interfered with the readings - breaking it down had taken forty nine planetary revolutions.

Once the sensors were online, the Ys concentrated onto system check up - though this could often be launched while any possible sensor repairs were in process. The system check up lasted longer, because it included everything from Ys' major to minor system, as well as structural integrity in all Ys sections. Sometimes nothing was wrong - but most often than not there were minute hull breaches, some malfunctions in the systems, once Ys had even woken up to find entire level flooded due to a shattered window. That was the pain of not having an energy shield. The Ys' structure had been designed to endure much without such protection, but time and the ocean pressure took its toll, more and more every year.

The repairs followed by system check up could take anything from moments to several planetary revolutions - once, several orbital revolutions around the star, even. This had happened when strange, metal vessel had crashed into third wing of Ys, causing the entire section to be almost completely severed from the rest of Ys. Repairs had taken almost four percent of Ys energy capacity. It had been a disaster.

However, once every repair was done, and Ys functioned to its optimal capacity, what followed was the easiest. Life support was brought online, and the Ys interior was purged from the air of previous years life-support start, and replaced with new, filtered air. The water systems were started up as well, supplying the Ys fountains with purified ocean water, completely free of anything but the water molecules. Heating came next because it was interwoven with the water system, and the temperature inside Ys was set according to the optimal results of the previous year's analysis.

Finally, the genetic archive was checked and confirmed either functional or in need of refilling - the torn wing had caused nearly half of the archive to be destroyed, and Ys had spent the time after repairs refilling the samples. Once the archive was found functional, measure of the samples were siphoned elsewhere, and prepared for possible sustenance production.

Then, once the Ys was ready to support life, the sensors were re-calibrated and the entire planet was swept by the sensors - then the sensor parameters were adjusted, and the planet was swept again. This process was repeated in rapid succession twelve times, and all in all took approximately one tenth of a percentage of the planet's revolution on its axis.

Each year, the Ys recorded more and less life. There were millions of different types of creatures on the planet, everything from bacteria to more evolved forms of life - some of those forms quite intelligent too. However, despite the many creatures, only one race was of importance - humanity was Ys' priority. And it kept increasing rapidly - there were more of them now on this single planet, than Ys' historical records could recall there having ever been anywhere else. Hundreds of millions.

But, while the humanity increased numbers were cause for some curiosity, it was the evolutionary process the Ys was monitoring and waiting for.

And there was plenty to monitor. There were different sects, different strands of human development. Different races grew and bloomed in different sections of the planet. And, elusive and hidden, there was also the bloodline the Ys was most closely interested of. It had started very soon after Ys had been created and along the thousands and thousands of orbital revolutions around the star, it had slowly but steadily evolved. A new, different race of humans, something even Ys creators hadn't been able to predict. They were one in ten thousand, but they were appearing everywhere in the planet, from the remotest of regions to the most densely populated - and though majority of them now were the descendants of those who came before them, each orbital revolution more came from new bloodlines that had previously exhibited no such advancements.

Ys, after discovering these bloodlines, had paid especial attention to them - they were the reason for over half of the reworking of the sensor parameters. The new humans didn't register in the same manner as normal humans did - and sometimes they eluded the sensors entirely due to the energy patterns they emitted naturally. And, during the past three hundred to four hundred orbital revolutions, their readings had been increasingly difficult to catalogue. But Ys kept at it, because its estimation was that the individual it was programmed to wait for would be one of them.

So, every year Ys woke up and it checked and scanned and sensed, waiting for the day when even one of those humans would fit within the parameters of its search. Each year they got slightly closer, slightly nearer, but still not one of them had met the criteria in the near ten thousand orbital revolutions the Ys had been recording them.

Not before the nine thousand nine hundredth and eighty second scan.

A bell rung through the Ys, as the ship keyed into the human who emitted frighteningly expansive energy signatures - and whose physiology met enough of the parameters to fit. He was young but his brain chemistry was years and years ahead any other human - and, Ys found, it was well fit for this particular task. This particular human had brain uniquely suited information transfer - partially because Ys readings confirmed that it had happened to this human already once before.

The reaction of this discovery was immediate. Systems that had not activated in thousands of orbital revolutions sprung into action, and lights that had never been turned on lit up. In Ys wing, the genetic samples of the planet's plant life, which were picked for their nutrient, protein and vitamin value, moved forward through tubes and transporters and were buried in soil containers, showered in nutrients, and urged to grow by plant growth enhancers that, for the first time since they had been built, had a purpose.

Ys central command centre hummed to life, crystal screens activated, bathing consoles in iridescent blue light. "Analysis and compatibility confirmed. Confirmation in process. Communication launch in progress," read across the crystal screen, as from Ys base a drone was launched, bearing a precious message written in all languages of the planet, directed to the one person on Earth who could be Ys' captain.

Thankfully for Ys Harry Potter was a little boy, and when he received the Hogwarts letter and the Ys' communication at the same time on the Hut on a Rock, the concept of lasers guns and space ships beat spells and magic wands - even if only by small margin.

x

**Perfect world**

(Harry Potter x Naruto)

"You see, Potter, this is where everything will change!" Voldemort gloated over him, while the Boy Who Lived struggled hard and valiantly against the chains wrapped around him. "Tonight the entire fate of the world will change! In future this day will be known as the day when the world was destroyed - and when it's glorious rebirth begun! Today, my dear Mr. Harry Potter, I will gain a tool so powerful that the world will have no choice than to bend to my will!

"Sounds promising. Let me guess, it's a vacuum cleaner?" Harry asked grimacing and trying to wrench himself free from the chains. Around him there was great runic circle and, considering that he had been bound to it by _chains_, it wasn't looking good for him.

"Oh, I should be commended for this feat of power and mastery!" Voldemort crowed without acknowledging his words in the slightest. "Not only is the summoning circle incredibly intricate and simply impossible for anyone but someone of my intelligence and power - but so many others are too weak to even try to use it. See, it requires a payment. It is a bridge with a toll - and I am _oh_ so sorry to say, that you, my dear young nemesis… fit the bill of the payment quite spot on."

"You're going to sacrifice me to summon something, yeah, I got it," Harry rolled his eyes, trying to hide the fact that he was more or less scared out of his wits. "Very Dark Lord of you. What, pray tell, is this tool you're summoning, exactly?"

"A being of infinite power," Voldemort smirked at him. "I found information about it in old text, far, far too old for anyone average to get their hands on, not to mention about translating it. Dark magic goes a long way in these things - it's really pity you never though to try it." The Dark Lord chuckled, walking around the circle. "Well, no matter. It is too late for you and for your little Order of Phoenix, it is too late for anything but this moment when Lord Voldemort gains the _absolute power_!"

"Absolute power. Sweet, sign me up for that," Harry grumbled. "So, what. I'm going to die and this being of infinite power or whatever will just appear from where, my blood?"

"Oh no, I'm not quite so stupid," Voldemort chuckled. "For one, there is nothing that's worth anything in your blood. However, due to your… accident back in 1981, you possess one very… useful quality for this," he smirked again and stepped forward and closer to Harry. "The only human Horcrux the history knows. You have no idea how special you are, Harry Potter, to have that and still survive."

Harry grimaced. Damn, Voldemort knew about that. "Wait," he murmured, frowning. "You chose me for this because I'm your _Horcrux_?"

"Yes - and no. It is not the Horcrux part of you that I am interested - though that does give me an edge, I admit. No, it's the ability you have. You have a Horcrux inside you - and you _survive_," the Dark Lord let out a hissing laughter. "You have adjusted to foreign soul inside you, something no other human could've ever done. You are possessed, and yet healthy as you can be! Can you see now, Harry Potter, your true worth?"

Harry only frowned in answer, until Voldemort laughed again. "You alone could house a power greater than you, and live. You, my dear nemesis, my young adversary, will house the soul and spirit of my tool of conquest! You will become the human host of my absolute power!" the madman cackled. "And my Horcrux will make it so much easier as well! Through it I will be able to control the being! Oh, it will be glorious. It is truly a pity you will never see it!"

Harry growled, again wrestling against the chains and trying to get away. "You're monster, Voldemort."

"No, Harry Potter. The monster would be you," the Dark Lord smiled at him. "Or you will be, shortly. Good buy, the Boy Who lived. Rest in peace in the knowledge that your death brought forth a new era for all of the people of the Earth!"

With that said, he begun chanting, while the runic circle below Harry lit up and the chains around him glowed with dark, sinister power. As the power travelled through the chains to Harry, the Boy Who Lived convulsed, electrified and shocked and suddenly unable to breath enough even to scream. Instead he remained arched, held there by the energy running through him, in suspended motion of absolute, horrifying agony - and the knowledge it was all over.

He collapsed only after Voldemort was done chanting, going down like puppet with his strings cut off in clatter of chains. Voldemort laughed with elation, walking around the circle and watching how the body that had belonged to the Boy Who Lived writhed with the last sparks of energy, before growing still. Then, after a long moment of quiet, the being now in possession of the body pushed himself to his knees and looked up.

"Finally, I will control a _god_!" Voldemort murmured, as he saw how the emerald green of Harry Potter's eyes had been replaced with grey-purple ripples of something not quite humans.

The being in possession of Harry Potter's body blinked slowly. "Another world of _pain_," he murmured - and while Voldemort watched, the being stood up, completely ignoring the chains which were supposed to be keeping him kneeled. As the chains shattered and snapped like they were nothing but straw, the being straightened up and somehow, despite being shorter than him, glared _down_ at Lord Voldemort.

"Shall I be the saviour of this one?" the being asked - and without waiting for an answer he reached out his hand. Voldemort gasped as was suddenly pulled forward as if the gravity had been reversed, and right into the being's awaiting grip. The last thing Voldemort saw was the emotionless of the eyes that belonged to something much worse than his nemesis - and then his world ended, as his neck was quickly and efficiently broken

xx

So, explanations.

"Alchemists and such"; no idea, just wanted Harry to fail at Alchemy.

"Balls to you"; absobloodylutely no idea, but anyone who knows where the title came from will get cyber cookies.

"Behemoth sleeping"; I wanted to write a story with Harry in control of great big ship, maybe a factory even, and deciding to venture from planet to planet making hospitals, libraries, schools and entertainment centres everywhere he stopped.

"Perfect world"; old, dusty idea of Voldemort trying to summon something from Naruto world and failing hard. Anyone thought hewas going to summon Kyubi, raise you hand! I thought it too - but then my brain went _meh_, and it turned out to be Nagato instead. Which is kind of fitting if you think about it, Harry, Nagato, two saviours...

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	33. Magipedia

Warnings; none.

**Magipedia**

As a rule, Harry never whined about the things he owned - or more precisely, didn't. Originally it had been the rule of the Dursleys, who had time and time again told him "not to ask any questions," and "not try and hinder them with more expenses when he was already draining their poor wallets dry with his mere existence," and "not agitate poor widdle Dudley". Later on it had came his own rule, because getting the snarl-lectures and mean looks from Dudley had gotten really bothersome and so, as a rule, Harry never whined about that.

Out loud.

The thing was, though, Dudley got _all_ the cool toys. He got a remote control car when he was three, remote control plane when he was four, remote control helicopter, doll, dinosaur… Then he got bicycles which lasted less than year, computers that lasted less than month, games and gaming stations, cool gadgets like radios and cameras and wicked looking torches that flashed continuously on right setting. And this without mentioning the trips to theme parks and zoos and museums and whatnot.

And what Harry got? Well, he had gotten a coat hanger once. True, it had been one of those metal wire ones and he had been able to bent it out of shape and make something else out of it, but still. Dudley got a remote control T-rex, and Harry got a coat hanger. Even if he never said anything aloud about it anymore, it was _so unfair_. He didn't even get any of the cool toys Dudley had gotten tired with, no, those went into the charity and whatnot because Aunt Petunia charitable woman and very concerned of those poor orphans somewhere elsewhere - who all were probably better off than Harry was.

Every year it was the same. Dudley got thirty seven presents, good ten or more of them from his parents, another five from Aunt Marge, and the rest from the friends of the family and, maybe, from Dudley's friends if their meagre presents could be found behind the huge packet of Dudley's newest of long line of brand new bikes. Of course, Harry wasn't usually there to see it - he was at Mrs. Figgs house, getting to know her old cats while all he wished was for her to treat him like the Dursleys so that he could finally go and clean the place up so that it wouldn't smell like many cats had answered the call of nature in the corners.

When he got back, head full of Mr. Tuffull's history and how little Miffy had lost her ear in an accident, Dudley was there, _prancing_. He had a new cap and a new shirt from the latest theme park - and he had a digital watch and a cassette player and some sort of horrible sounds coming out of it, and he had remote controls and new toy soldiers and who knew what else. And of course, enough candy to re-carpet the living room floor.

And Harry was told to clean the after effects of the birthday party and then told to go to his cupboard without dinner because he had managed to drop one of the bowls on his own toes.

In the following days, until Harry's own birthday, Aunt Petunia would be cleaning Dudley's second bed room, going tut-tut about how much stuff there was. "Oh, Vernon, I think it's time to give into charity again. See if you have any tools in the garage you don't need anymore, would you?" she would say - even though he never had any - and then she would spent days sorting through stuff in the living room. This robot went to the charity, this legless dog to the trash, this book went into the bookshelf, maybe someone would read it one day, but this one went obviously to trash. Toys and cracked glass marbles and gadgets and all other sort of interesting thing went not only to the charity pile but also to the trash pile - while Harry watched from the side, longing.

He had stolen some toy soldiers once without Aunt Petunia noticing, but after she had found them in his cupboard later, she had started keeping close eye at him during the sorting time - and before she took all the stuff away, she went through his cupboard to see if there was anything there he didn't need. The metal mobile he had made out of the coat hanger, turning it into a wire frame of the sun and the moon, had gone to the charity like that.

True, Aunt Petunia brought him things back from the charity too. Like eye glasses and clothes and shoes because all Dudley's old ones were too big on him. She had even gotten him a cot and a mattress from charity, but that wasn't something Harry was exactly happy about. Well, sure, it was nice to be sleeping on something other than the floor, but it wasn't the same as remote control helicopter, or a digital watch, or a camera, or any other of the dozens of cool toys Dudley had.

But there was little he could do and he didn't whine, so birthdays went past in sullen bitterness as Dudley's stash of things got higher, and Harry got nothing - not even a coat hanger. By the time Dudley turned ten, though, it had been going on for so many birthdays that Harry was almost adjusted to it. He still sighed with longing as Dudley pranced his new skateboard around, but he said nothing out loud - not even in the sorting week that followed and saw the departure of several of the remote-control toys and the camera from the previous year.

Then, on Harry's own birthday, something unusual happened.

x

The packet was small, insignificant when compared to those Dudley had gotten for his birthday. It wasn't actually a packet at all - only a thick letter, kind of squishy here and there and with tape holding it shut. But it was special; Harry knew that better than anyone, because of the simple reason that it was addressed to _him_. Harry Potter, Privet Drive Nr. 4, Little Whinging, Surrey. It was a letter - no, a packet, albeit small one - directed at _him_! What more, there was a note written just beside the address, obviously also directed at him.

"_Tug this under your shirt, Harry_!" the packet told him, and after a split second of wordless gaping, Harry did just that,

"Come on, boy, bring the post already! I'm expecting an important letter today, you know!" Uncle Vernon called from the kitchen. After making sure the packet was secured beneath the belt of his pants, Harry stood up with the other mail, letters and advertisements, and hurried back to the kitchen. The small packet seemed to be burning against his belly as he handed the letters over, and Harry was sure anyone with eyes could see it there… but despite his worries, Uncle Vernon didn't glance up from the letters after getting them, and both Aunt Petunia and Dudley were too busy watching some morning show about cross country bicycle riding to pay him any mind.

Trying not to seem too nervous or excited, Harry sat back down to finish his breakfast, before getting up to wash the dishes. When he turned to hear back to his cupboard, eager to be in private and get a chance to open the packet, Aunt Petunia called after him "Not so fast, Harry!" she snapped, and he froze in place, sure the packet had slipped and she had seen it and that she was now going to take it away from him, his first letter, first _packet_…!

"Clean up the table," she said instead of mentioning anything about the packet, and he was so relieved that he went about the chore without a word, quickly piling up the dirty dishes and taking them to the sink. He even washed them without being told to, before glancing around to see if anyone was watching, before slinking way just as Vernon started complaining about how he hadn't gotten his important letter yet.

After getting to his cupboard and closing the door, Harry sat still for a while, to make sure Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon wouldn't come after him to point him at some task or other. Only then - and only after rigging something in front of the door to make it harder for anyone to see into the cupboard after opening the door - he pulled out the packet. It hadn't changed - still white, squishy around the edges, and with something that was definitely hard inside.

"A packet. For _me_!" he whispered voicelessly and spent a good minute just looking at the packet and turning it in his hand. His first real packet! He almost didn't want to open it at all, and spent the rest of his life in a sort of suspended excitement of what it contained.

But wait. What if it was a trick of some kind? Maybe Dudley had sent it and it had something like dog poo in a box? Or some of Dudley's friends? It would be a bit cleverer than he had learned to expect from them, but he couldn't put it past them. Though, on other hand, how much did it cost to send a packet? He couldn't see Dudley or any of the others giving up money for any reason - not when it could be used to by candy or something.

After worrying about it for a moment, Harry scowled. There was only one way to find out, he decided and then, as quietly as possible, he begun ripping the tape open, fraction of an inch at a time, keeping year on the door to be sure to have enough time to hide the packet if someone tried to get in.

Finally the seal was loose, and taking unconscious breath, Harry opened the wrapping, holding his breath then just in case it _was_ dog poo.

It wasn't. Instead there was a small sheet of paper inside - and weird bronze-shaded thing. Confused, Harry turned the packet upside down in his hand so that the thing and the letter fell to his hand. Then he turned them confusedly around. The bronze shaded thing looked like… he had no ideas what it looked like, actually. A thick dark mirror maybe? Or a weird sort of photography frame? It was kind of pretty, with complexly etched carvings of weird symbols around the edges and very fancy lettering atop what looked like black mirror surface. "Magipedia" it read in golden letters. As Harry turned it in his hand, the bottom of the device slid forward oddly, revealing what looked like a tiny keypad of a very old muggle typewriter.

Thoroughly baffled, Harry turned to the piece of paper that had come with the weird gadget, and turned it so that he could see the text. It had the same title as the weird device.

**_"Magipedia_**

_"Magipedia is a self-updating and self-editing magical encyclopaedia, a compendium of all magical branches of knowledge. It has over seven hundred thousand articles, most of which were written by the Magipedia's self-updating charms, and which have gone through several screening and grammar-correcting charms to ensure their readability. Magipedia was created in year 2007 by George Weasley and Lee Jordan of the Weasley Wizarding Wheeses, taking inspiration from a similar muggle device, as a cheating multitool for magical students all around the world, but which since has become the greatest and most expansive library of magical knowledge, and has sold over hundred thousand copies all around the world."_

Underneath what was obviously a printed piece of an article, there was hand written note of the same handwriting that had written the letter's address and note to Harry.

_"To activate say; 'I solemnly swear; to cheat every step of the way.'"_

Harry stared at the letter for a long while, eyebrows rising up and towards his hairline. Magical knowledge? Cheating Multitool? In _year 2007_? That was, what, seventeen years into the future?

"This is a joke of some sort," the boy murmured, turning his eyes to the bronze, old looking device resting on his knees. "Magic doesn't exist, Uncle Vernon said -" he stopped, frowning and thinking about it for a moment. Uncle Vernon said a lot of things, most of which he didn't much like. Scowling, Harry lifted the Magipedia in his hand, and hurriedly whispered, "I solemnly swear to cheat every step of the way!" to it.

At first nothing seemed to happen and the device stayed the same. Then, making Harry very nearly drop the thing, the part what he had thought to be a black mirror, lit up bright white. Quickly taking a firmer hold of the weird, bronze thing, Harry brought it closer to him to see that there was text on the screen.

_"Congratulations for buying Magipedia, the most expansive magical encyclopaedia known. The unit you own is the mark three Cheater's unit, which comes with automated notice-me not, self-repair, translation and everlasting charms and a voice pattern recognition enchantment for your security. You have selected 'I solemnly swear; to cheat every step of the way,' as your pass word phrase. To change the pass word phrase, please go to settings. Please note that due to the nature of the Magipedia device, it does not have moving pictures in it."_

The text stood there for a moment, before fading away and changing into;

_"**Magipedia.**_

_"Biographies, History, Magical Arts, Magical Branches, Magical Sciences, Society, Technomancy. Spellionary."_

Below all of that there was box with "_Type your query here and hit Enter_" written on it. Harry stared at it and the text above it for a long while, not quite sure what he was seeing. _Magical_ arts, branches and sciences? Technomancy? And what the heck was Spellionary? And type your query here, how…?

"Oh, yeah, there's the keyboard," Harry murmured, and shifted the bottom of the Magipedia into view, along with its weird, tiny old fashioned keyboard. For a moment he looked between the list of words above, wondering if he should search some of them - Magical Arts sounded interesting, definitely, even if like something that would get him thrown into the cupboard without anything to eat for a week if he ever said it out loud. But then there was also Technomancy - and what was Spellionary?

After a moment of thinking about he carefully typed down two words by using his thumbs. "Harry Potter," he murmured and then hit the black round button that had _enter_ written on it in tiny print.

**_"Harry Potter_**

_"Harry James Potter, OOM1st, OOM2nd, (born in 31st of July, 1980) is the youngest Chief of the Magical Law Enforcement in British magical nation, appointed at age of eighteen in year 1999. He is most well known for defeating the Dark Lord Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. Voldemort, in years 1981, 1992, 1993, and 1998, and is still to this day known as the Boy Who Lived, and the Chosen One of the Prophecy of 1980."_

Harry stared at the text for a long while with eyes wide open, not entirely sure if he was actually reading what he was. He glanced to the right side of the screen and to the picture of black haired, spectacled man who was, by the looks of it, trying to glare the photographer down. Shivering, Harry turned his eyes away and instead looked for an arrow-down button until he could scroll the screen down - to find that it was half a book worth of text. His eyes widened further as he came to the section about Harry Potter's history and read, "Harry James Potter was born in idyllic village of Godric's Hollow to James and Lily Potter (nee Evans) in 31st of July, 1980…" which confirmed that the text was actually, sort of, talking about him.

Except it couldn't be. It just couldn't. The thing, this Magipedia, was talking about him like he was someone… someone _important_. And great. And magnificent! And, most of all, a bloody _wizard_! Not to mention about the fact that the Magipedia apparently knew what he would be in _eight years_!

"This is a joke, this has to be a joke," Harry whispered to himself, while quickly writing down James Potter to the query bar. He swallowed thickly as the device quickly answered, bringing forth James Potter's page with his achievements and post humorous awards - and the fact that he was most well known for being Harry Potter's father and for his and his wife's tragic death in 1981 at the hands of Dark Lord Tom Riddle.

"This thing is lying to me, it has to be," Harry whispered, wiping a hand across his eyes as he looked at the picture of James and Lily Potter, who by the looks of it were posing for the picture. Between them they had a little black haired infant, who was trying his best to reach his mother's hair and pull it.

After a moment of staring at the picture, Harry searched for Lily Potter. Her page was even shorter than James's had been, but it go over her family members - and the part about, "Her elder, non magical sister, Petunia Dursley, would one day raise her orphaned son in muggle neighbourhood of Little Whinging, in Surrey…" struck Harry for a moment. If there was any truth in the Magipedia, it would be here, he decided, and quickly searched for Petunia Dursley before he could get distracted by Lily's history. It wouldn't do to start reading something that might just as well be a complete lie.

Petunia didn't have a page of her own - but there was one titled "The Dursley Family," which, despite being fairly short, ended up being more than educating. "… known for raising Harry Potter in years before his admittance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Not much is known about this family, except that they wilfully kept Harry Potter in dark about magic for years, and went to some lengths to stop his admittance to Hogwarts…"

Harry stared at the little snipped of text, his head echoing with old conversation. "Don't ask any questions," and, "Your parents were drunks who died in a car accident, don't ask any more questions," and most of all, "There is no such thing as magic!"

For a moment he was very tempted to jump up and face his guardians, accuse them of lying to him, from keeping things from him. His parents hadn't been drunks - they had been a _witch_ and a _wizard_, and they had died bravely while _protecting him_! And there was most definitely such a thing as _magic_. There was, by the looks of it, a lot of it too!

But then reality caught him and made him hesitate, his fingers curling over the bronze, beautifully etched Magipedia. They were lying to him - and, according to the Magipedia, they had gone to _lengths_ to stop him from finding out. Why? Harry frowned and then remembered. Freakishness. He didn't hear that word as often as he had before he had realised it was an insult, but he could remember it. It had been a common word once.

Like when the ugly jumper Aunt Petunia had wanted him to wear had shrunken down. Or when Miss Willows had been mean to him, and her hair had turned blue. And then there was that time when he had accidentally ended up on the school's rooftop after running away from Dudley…

He even remembered what had happened afterwards, when he had been punished. He had been scared out of his wits, listening through the cupboard door how Uncle Vernon had suggested to Aunt Petunia that they should "beat the freakishness out of him". They never had - Aunt Petunia had panicked at the whole thing and it was never brought up again - but he remembered.

Freakishness. Maybe magic was what they meant with that word. It would make sense. Harry had long since realised how… intolerant his guardians were of anything that was in any way different. If anyone on the Privet Drive as much as wore a silly piece of cloth, it insulted the Dursleys gravely. Something as _unnatural_ as magic would give them a near stroke, no doubt.

Harry leaned back a little, looking at the Magipedia with new appreciation. What had the first page said - histories, biographies, magical art and sciences…? Everything the Dursleys didn't want him to know was in it - everything about magic. Encyclopaedia of Magic, in a hand held device! And the Dursleys didn't know he had it! The boy grinned gleefully, turning the device in his hands with reverence. All knowledge he needed, in a thing smaller than telephone receiver!

But who on earth had send it to him?

Lowering the Magipedia for a moment, Harry glanced over the envelope and the note. Neither had names in them, or any sort of personal message aside from the one telling him to tug the packet under his shirt. But that… meant that who ever had sent the Magipedia to him had known that if the Dursleys would've seen it, they would've taken if from him. Who k new that, aside from him and the Dursleys? Aunt Marge, maybe Mrs. Figg, but he couldn't see her sending this to him - she wasn't magical anyhow. Dudley's friends maybe, but they were _Dudley__'s friends_. Even if they could get their hands onto something like this…

And besides. The Magipedia had knowledge about the _future_. Who would part with something like that?

"Wait," Harry murmured at himself. "The Magipedia… has knowledge about future." No, that wasn't quite right. The things written in the Magipedia didn't seem like that. They seemed more like stuff written _afterwards_. And what was it that the letter said again? Quickly he reached for it, and read through the printed part of the text again. "Magipedia was created in _year 2007_…" Harry read quietly and then trailed away. Seventeen years into the future, some people named George Weasley and Lee Jordan _would_ create Magipedia. Which meant they hadn't yet.

The Magipedia was _from_ the future. Harry blinked, being the bronze instrument with wide eyes. "The Magipedia is from the future," he whispered to himself. "Someone sent me an… encyclopaedia about magic… from the future?"

How cool was _that_?

Grinning widely, he took a firmer hold of the device, intending to type in another query - he wanted to know _everything_, everything about his parents, their jobs, of this _Hogwarts_ place he was supposed to go - oh, and George Weasley and Lee Jordan, they had to be pretty cool to create something like this - and then there was all about magic, he wanted to know everything, and -

"Harry? Harry, get in here and help me with the trash!" Aunt Petunia called from the kitchen, almost making Harry drop the Magipedia.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia!" He called back, smothering the urge to curse. He glanced around quickly for a good place to hide the Magipedia, before shoving it, the note and the package wrap all under his mattress and quickly getting up. He cast a last glance backwards and grinned to himself. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would do something to bother his Uncle and they wound sent him to his cupboard for the rest of the day. Unlike all the hundreds of times before, this time he looked forward to it.

xx

So, here's an idea for a "super Harry" or "knowledgeable Harry" story, which I adored when it came to me. Harry Potter with Wikipedia, sort of. No actual super knowledge or time travel or being taught by someone epic, just... a device with all the magical knowledge in the world in it. From the future.

Then I lapsed into a bout of headaches and it got stuck. I will most likely continue this once I feel a bit better.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	34. Prisons of your mind, HP x FF7

Warnings; Mildly insane and very OOC Harry. Crossover with Final Fantasy VII. Sort of sequel/prequel/twin of "Sewers of your mind". It's not necessary to know that one, but this will probably make some sense if you have read it before reading this. Some spoilers.

**Prisons of your mind**

Harry blinked slowly, glancing around himself. He couldn't see anything. That was a new one. He was used to places, to distorted reflections of reality or nightmares - even perfect blank whiteness or complete blackness was more common than simple… nothingness. No colour, no shapes, nothing. Absolute void of everything. Definitely new.

But of course there had to be something - he wouldn't be there if there wasn't. He looked left and right and up until he saw a glimmer of something far into the distance. Well, now he at least knew that the place had dimensions. More curious than he had been in a while, he set forward towards the glimmer, vaguely wondering what his fate had for him this time. The nothingness hinted something special.

The glimmer turned out to be a feather, that seemed to endlessly fall through non-existent air, even while staying completely still in the nothingness. Now more curious than before, Harry picked the feather up, turning it in his fingers. It was white, fairly large, and soft and hard at the same time - feather of a very large wing. Too large to be from any natural bird. Very interesting.

Out of instinct more than anything else, Harry glanced directly above him, knowing more than guessing that the feather had fallen from there.

"Well," he murmured, as he saw a young boy there, falling without moving just like the feather had. Boy with silver hair and single white wing, which seemed broken from several places. "I'll have my work cut for me with you, won't I?"

The boy didn't answer - and that hadn't happened in a while. People rarely were unconscious in their own minds. They tended to be semi aware and often locked in their own nightmares and traumas, living their horrors endlessly by the time Harry got there. It took something very different to make a person lose their consciousness _in_ their own consciousness.

Shaking his head and now _very_ curious, Harry kicked himself up from the non-existent surface he had been walking and to the non-existent air, hovering to the falling-flying-hovering boy. The kid was ethereal - and it wasn't just the broken wing, no. He was too pretty to be human. And, as Harry ran his hand over the kid's face and curiously touched the short silver hair, he had to conclude that he _wasn't_ completely human. Harry had no idea what he was, but there was definitely something else in him, than normal human genes.

Well, he was used to that, though. Humans were dime in dozen in the greater cosmos, but not as common as one would imagine. He was more used to demons and aliens these days than he would've imagined possible, back when he had been alive.

"Ah," Harry murmured, as a spark of green shot out from the kid's skin, zapping his fingers. Rubbing his fingers together he tested the feel of it. Magic, but not quite. "What's this?" he asked, leaning forward. As he did, the kids eyes opened a fraction. They were green - but not like Harry's eyes were green. No, this was green so luminous, so utterly natural that it was abhorrently unnatural. "Well," Harry said softly. "Well, well, well."

Definitely interesting.

"Human," the boy whispered, airy and alien, hissing the word out without actually making a sound. "Pathetic insignificant human. What are you doing in the mind of my most beloved?"

"Oh?" Harry asked, and then grinned. Well, now, this was absolutely delightful. A welcoming committee - but not his summoner? Possession of some sort? His favourite. "And who are you, then?" he asked, placing his hand onto the kid's chest, trying to see if he could feel the origins of the possession. Curse, like it had been with his case or something else? The odd inhumanity he could feel in the kid? The wing, maybe?

The boy - but not the boy - smiled. It was strange expression that didn't move anything but the kid's lips. "I am a god," it whispered. "I am bringer of life, and destroyer of worlds, I am mother to all and I am the child everyone must care for. I am the beginning and the end. I am the Creator, I am the Calamity, I am Jenova."

"You are a stray strand of genes," Harry corrected. "But this is exciting!" Sentience in genome? Well, no, not quite, but kind of. The kid was, by the feel of it, born with the alien genes in him, yet they weren't natural so it wasn't due to parents. Some sort of experiment maybe - certainly wouldn't be the first time. But the power of these particular genes was almost terrifying - especially since he couldn't quite tell what it was. It wasn't magic, but something similar and something strange - and absolutely fascinating. It was a rare day something so new and interesting came about.

"Excitement," the stray strand of genes snorted and eyed him with the kid's eerily living eyes. "And who and what are you?"

"Ghost of the cosmos," Harry answered, leaning forward a little and pressing his forehead against the kid's, concentrating. Ah, yes. Very powerful genes these were - somehow still connected to the original source through the not-quite-magic. That was where the sentience came from. Alone, the genes would've been just genes, maybe slightly more smart genes than genes usually were, but still just that. But from afar, the source was still in control of them, and by the looks of it, in at least partial control of the boy. "You are magnificent, lady Jenova."

"I know," she hissed in answer, but the look in the kid's eyes wasn't exactly full of appreciation. It wasn't even blank like before but instead, all of sudden, seriousness had came over the kid's strange glowing eyes. "Ghost of the cosmos," Jenova whispered. "Ghost of the cosmos. You are not of this world. Like I, you are not of this world."

"Repeat, repeat," Harry answered in singy song voice, and grinned. "So you are a alien lady then, lady Jenova, creator and calamity?"

"I fell upon this world eons ago and this world belongs to me," she hissed, the kid's eyes now wide and staring into Harry's own. With Harry's forehead still pressed against the kids, he could see the shift of colour's in the green eyes - not just in terms of shade, but it actually shifted, strands of light and darkness flittering in the iris. It strangely looked like they were on fire.

"Stepping onto something doesn't take you it's owner," Harry answered, staring right back and then _into_, until he could see through the kid's eyes and into Jenova's. He snorted softly. "Why, lady Jenova. You're in a bottle!" he laughed, after seeing the state she was in.

"Impudent maggot!" she hissed, the kid's body convulsing slightly with her anger. Harry leaned back, grinning widely and watching. The woman creature, what ever she was, gave the impression of utter control, but it was fairly fleeting it seemed. All she could do was suppress the kid's will under her own - and, by the looks of it, she could only do that while the kid himself was out cold. And, if Harry was absolutely right, she wasn't the reason the kid was so completely unconscious.

Harry smiled, as the creature in control of the kid let out what could only be called a muffled roar, and gave up her attempts to control the kid, resorting instead to glaring at Harry. "A kid with alien DNA in him - DNA which is controlled from afar by its source, the source which is basically in a sealed bottle in some laboratory," he recited to himself and chuckled. "Definitely new."

But it was only a start. The kid had called him for some reason and he needed to find out why and what he could do about it. Because of Jenova? If that was it, then the kid would've never been able to call him - Harry wasn't called because of such fleeting fits of possessions, no. He was only summoned by full blown horrors and Jenova, in her bolstered sense of self superiority and faint attempts of controlling the kid, was nothing. No, there had to be something else, something much worse, for the kid to be able to scream loud enough.

"It's been fun," Harry said to Jenova, patting the kid's cheek. "I'll deal with you later, I imagine. But I have bigger things to deal with."

"If you try to gain control of my most beloved, I will destroy you!" she hissed. "I will eradicate you from all dimensions of existence, I will annihilate every strand of your being, I will -"

"If someone of your level actually could do that, I would've ceased to be a long time ago, lady Jenova," Harry answered, amused. "But keep up the good spirits, don't you?"

With a parting wave at the kid's eyes, Harry pressed his hand onto the kid's bare chest and concentrated. He wouldn't learn anything more from the inside of the kid's head, not while kid was out cold. He needed to see the reality.

The world of the kid's mind - or the very near complete absence of it anyway - faded away, and in rush of _life_, Harry found himself outside. It took him a moment to realise that he was really _outside_. Blinking with surprise, he stared down to the kid - who was now fully clothed and wingless, lying limply on a bed beside Harry. "Well," Harry murmured, and looked down to his own hands. They were transparent.

He hadn't been able to possess the kid's body even though he had been so defenceless? This case was really proving to be a singularly unique one. "Neat," he murmured grinning with delight, and glanced around.

They were in a fairly small and, for some odd reason, completely metallic room. Floor, ceiling, walls, door, even the bed the kid was lying on was all metal. Fascinated, Harry nudged his bare toes along the floor, trying to get a sense of it. The metal felt strange - too cold to be entirely natural. On top of that, there were no windows and the door seemed to be fairly firm - and, judging by the design, somewhat technological. It probably slid aside mechanically, rather than swing open.

After moment Harry concluded that it wasn't actually a room at all. It was a prison. A kid of maybe seven or eight, in a metal prison. Fairly well watched one too, Harry added to himself, noticing a security camera on the corners of the room, watching the kid from four different angles.

"Well, this is more like it," Harry nodded to himself. Kid in a box, watched so keenly? Definitely right up his alley, this was.

Shaking his head, he stepped towards the door and then right through it into a equally metallic corridor. Glancing left and right and noting the electric lambs and that every door along the corridor was as mechanical as the one of the kid's cell, Harry set out to explore. The kid wasn't going anywhere it seemed and figuring out exactly what was going on in this odd metallic prison took the priority.

He peeked into the other cells along the way, sticking his transparent head through the doors. Most of them were empty, couple had boxes and equipment in them, but a few had people. Couple of men and one woman, wearing white hospital gowns, all looking absolutely wrecked. The woman, by the looks of it, had lost her mind and was now completely lifeless, and one of the men had bitten his fingers open and was now drawing strange pictures onto the walls with them - before glancing terrified at the cameras and licking the walls clean.

Maybe it was a nuthouse, Harry mused, but he rather doubted it. All the other prisoners had hint of some… extra in them, though not as much as the kid had. That didn't indicate a nut house. More an experimental laboratory, really - and the fact that all the prisoners, except for the kid, had numbers tattooed to the back of their palms, was telling.

But what was the experiment and where were the people doing it?

Leaving the corridor, Harry ventured further away, peaking into rooms and halls until he finally found what he was looking for - the laboratory. Very impressive one, with monitors and observation booths and what looked like some sort of gas chambers… and half dozen people, men and women, in white lab coats, typing away at computers and looking over files.

Curious, Harry walked around the room, glancing at what everyone was doing and trying to get a sense of what was being done. He was drawn away from reading over a female scientist's shoulder, when a man with long dark hair snapped out, "Bring them," and the rest of the people in the laboratory very nearly jump into action.

As Harry watched, the bottom of what he had thought was a gas chamber, was opened and another floor was lifted up, bearing a woman with long brown hair who was holding a infant to her chest. She was sheltering the child tenderly against her chest, and as the floor stopped moving, bringing her and her child to the same level as the laboratory, she lifted her eyes and glared.

"Ifalna," the scientist with long black hair said, stepping forward with a smile. "It's a pleasure to have you join at long last."

"Hojo," she answered frostily.

"Surely you're happier to be here as well," the scientist smiled, nodding to himself. "You and your… precious daughter will be safest here, where people know exactly how to care for you."

The woman, Ifalna, didn't answer, only glared while Harry stepped closer - and then right through the glass of the gas chamber, to see the child the woman was holding. The kid looked barely a month old. Probably wasn't. "This place is only getting more fascinating," he murmured, reaching out and flicking the baby's nose gently. He grinned, as the kid frowned in sleep, turning her face towards Ifalna's chest.

"What will you do to us?" Ifalna asked, still glaring a murder at the scientist.

"Hm. Nothing much. I will study you, of course, I will dismantle the building blocks of your being and I will learn everything there is to learn about you and your kind, but aside from that my interest in you is purely… superficial, unless you can be of use to me, of course," the scientist said, stroking one long fingered hand over the chest of his lab coat. "I have more important matters to attend to and you are no where near the top of my priorities."

"If we are so unimportant, then why did you kill Gast?" the woman asked, grimacing.

Harry perked up, as the words send some interesting reactions down the laboratory. Some of the scientists winced or grimaced, one turned away with a scowl about her face. Only one who didn't react, was Hojo.

"Kill him? My dear Ifalna, I'm sure you're mistaken," the scientist said. "I'm a man of science. I've killed no one." He smiled - which was fairly creepy expression, even to Harry who had seen a _lot_ thorough his lifetimes. "Perhaps you had a bad dream."

"You're a bastard, Hojo," Ifalna answered. "No, you're a _monster_."

The man just smiled. "I'm sure you think so, but sometimes monstrosities must be committed, in the name of science and progress." With a nod, the man turned his back to the woman. "Collect samples," he ordered the others in the laboratory, while walking to a glass cabinet and taking out a bottle and a syringe. "I want some material to thoroughly study by the time I return."

"Where are you going, Professor?" one of the scientist dared to ask.

"I will go see Sephiroth," the man answered with a horrible smile and, utterly fascinated, Harry followed him.

He almost wished he had had someone to bet with when he found that his guess had been right - Professor Hojo made a near beeline towards the cell with the silver haired kid, opening it with a key-card. As he stepped in, Harry hovered behind him curiously, watching how he readied the syringe - and filled it with faintly glowing green liquid. Harry leaned forward curiously, feeling the power the liquid literally radiated. It was almost like someone had learned to turn magic into a substance. Actually, it was exactly like that.

"Time to wake up, son," the man said, turning the kid around and almost casually stabbing the syringe into the kid's buttock. Harry frowned slightly, watching how the glowing liquid was pumped into the kid and how in immediate reaction, the kid begun to convulse.

And then scream.

It was a horrible wail, worse than any animal would've managed - wordless and so full of pain that it made Harry, in his bodiless state, wince. Hojo however didn't even blink - he only pressed a hand against the back of the kid's neck and pushed him forcibly down, keeping the kid there, with his face smashed against the mattress even as the rest of his body shook and trembled. It was obviously not the first time it had happened.

"I guess now I know why I'm here," Harry murmured, reaching out and pressing his unseen hand onto the kid's back. He could feel the power surging inside the kid. It was as fascinating as it was horrifying - an intravenous injection of liquid magic, burning the kid from inside out. Yet, somehow, the kid wasn't dying - no, his body was absorbing the power. It caused him untold agony to do it, but he was definitely absorbing it.

And Harry, by the feel of it, couldn't get in any more. He frowned slightly and pushed at the kid's being, at his mind. Nope. He couldn't get in. Something in the kid, be it the glowing green stuff or Jenova or the kid himself, was stopping him.

Another first one.

"My beautiful son, my perfect creation," Hojo murmured, as the kid continued to trash and scream piercingly. "This is just a phase. One day the world will know how magnificent I made you - how powerful your mother made you. One day, you will be most powerful human being on this forsaken planet."

"Right," Harry murmured, and gave the scientist a thoughtful look, while the kid's convulsions slowly grew lesser. A bonafide mad scientist, wizard mused as Hojo withdrew his hand, leaving the kid lying there still shuddering and shaking uncontrollably, but no longer convulsing.

"You will be magnificent," Hojo said again, nodding proudly to himself, and then heading off again, closing and locking the door behind him.

The moment the door closed, the kid begun to sob softly, wrapping his arms around his head to hide his face from the camera's. He kept on shuddering slightly as he did, his breath hitching with the shakes. It was pitiful.

"Well," Harry said, patting the kid's back and then running his hand through his hair. "That was horrible."

The kid grew still - or as still as someone could be, while in fit of shakes, and turned to look at him from the corner of his glowing eye. It widened at the sight of Harry, though whether it was because of his presence or because Harry was still very much transparent and ghostly, the wizard didn't know. It didn't matter thought.

"Shh!" Harry said, holding a finger to his lips, when the kid drew a breath. "The camera's can't see or hear me, but if you start talking back to me, they might get curious and we need to have a talk in something resembling privacy. Okay?" he asked, and stood up from his crouched position, sitting instead beside the kid on the bed. Being ghostly, his weight didn't make even the slightest indent. "Your name is Sephiroth, right?" the wizard asked casually, running his hand over the kid's back, up and down, trying to soothe the tremors.

The kid was absolutely still for a moment, still staring wide eyed at him from the corner of his eye. Then, hesitatingly, he nodded and buried his face down again, hiding his eyes.

Harry smiled, patting his shoulder. "Hello Sephiroth. My name is Harry. I'm pretty new to this place so I don't know how things work here. Do you know what summoning means? In terms of magic, or power, of some sort of supernatural energy, I mean," he added, wondering how magic worked here. There was something like it, definitely. Hojo had pumped the kid's veins full of the stuff, after all.

The kid was again still for a moment before nodding, his shoulders shaking under Harry's palm.

"Good," Harry nodded. "We'll get to that in a moment. Before that, though, I want to know a few things about you. How long have you been here? Days, months, years - your whole life?" he asked, and then frowned as the kid nodded. "Why are you here?"

The kid said nothing, only stayed completely still. "You don't know?" Harry asked softly and the kid nodded. "And it's always been like that, here?" he asked. "Professor Hojo comes and injects you and leaves - and that's it?"

The kid hesitated and then shook his head, glancing at him from the corner of his eye again. "'xperiments," he whispered, scowling. "Tests. Fights."

Harry hummed, glancing at the cameras, wondering if they had microphones - and how sensitive those microphones were. He would've loved to throw a Muffliato, but he couldn't use magic without a body to channel the magic with, and even then it would've been like bright red flag in this place - and he didn't know enough to start lifting bright red flags just yet.

But this didn't seem like place he ought to be lingering in. It was best to get a move on.

"There are kids like you, sometimes. Well, sometimes they are all adults, but usually they're kids," Harry said. "Sometimes they're in a bad situation and they ask for help, but without having anyone to ask, without anyone to listen - and they're asking because they themselves can't do anything. And sometimes they ask it loud enough for someone like me to hear." He lowered his eyes from the camera to the kid and smiled. "And I'm a bit like a genie or a fairy godfather - because sometimes I grant wishes."

He leaned down, pressing his cheek against the kid's silver hair. "Tell me your wish, Sephiroth. Let's see if I can grant it."

The kid shuddered below him, for a moment completely tense. Then with a heavy sigh, he relaxed. "Save me," he whispered faintly. "Save me. _Save me_."

Harry thought about it for a moment before pressing a kiss to the kid's ear. "I'll do that," he said. He'd do a whole lot more along the way he suspected, but he'd do it. Eventually. "First I'll need a body, though. Can't do much roaming around as a ghost and for some reason you're rejecting me, so I need to go hunting. Sit tight kid, I'll be back as soon as I can."

The first possible bodies he checked were the other prisoners, namely the mindless woman. It would've been simplest to have a body with no mind to fight him, after all, and despite the sheer wreckedness of the prisoners, he could see the strange power radiating from them, just like it radiated from Sephiroth. That, he imagined, would've been useful later on.

But whatever was making Sephiroth singularly impossible to possess was shared with the other prisoners - they rejected him too, without ever knowing that they did. Even the mindless woman - or perhaps especially her, since with the others Harry could just barely feel that they still had minds while with her he felt nothing. It was as frustrating as it was fascinating and he made a mental note to get to the bottom of it, when he got the chance. This world and it's odd energies and alien entities was really starting to become interesting.

It became less interesting and more irritating the further he went along. He tested a man walking across the corridor, a lab assistant perhaps, and he also rejected Harry spirit. The wizard checked a soldier standing by a door way, and the man didn't only reject him but send him a step or two backwards. It went on a on, and everyone from the odd facility's scientific faculty to their help and their soldiers and even their cleaning staff all rejected him. It was like the entire population was somehow un-possessable.

In the end he ended up back in the main laboratory where Hojo, his scientists and his test subjects were, more because he had no other place left to go than because he thought he'd have any better luck there. When he entered the room through the wall, he found the staff there in full swing of sample collecting, while the long haired woman, Ifalna, wept, begging the scientist to return her daughter to her. The baby was _screaming_ in other end of the laboratory where, by the looks of it, one of the scientists was taking a bone marrow sample.

"Please, god, please, Aeris, please!" Ifalna cried, trashing against the binds holding her to a metallic chair, by all appearances more or less indifferent to the fact that she had two scientist on her, collecting blood and tissue and whatnot. "Please, don't hurt my baby girl, _please_!"

Had Harry not seen the things h had in his several thousands of lifetimes, he might've felt sick at the sight. Not just because of the woman's desperate begging or the wails of pain coming from a kid way too young to be put under such treatment, but because of how the scientists were going about the place. Business as normal, said their blank, unsympathetic faces. Just another day at work.

He would've loved to see them on a especially gruesome day, if this was the norm.

Hojo himself was there too, mumbling and grinning to himself while looking at a microscope. By the looks of it, he had sample of the woman's blood there, but Harry wasn't sure nor did he really care enough to find out. As interesting as it would've been to explore the debts of casual cruelty these people possessed, he had other needs. Namely, a body.

But, like he had suspected, all the scientist in the room, including Hojo, seemed to be off limits to him. Whatever it was, the walls around their minds and psyches were disturbingly strong and sturdy, so much so that they didn't even notice him pushing at them. Harry was starting to become seriously annoyed at it - it had been a long long while since a world had given him this much trouble in finding a form - when he experienced the spiritual version of slipping, and instead of hitting the scientist woman he had been aiming, he turned to the little baby she was sampling.

The baby was completely free of the odd walls that protected everyone else in the facility.

"You've got to be kidding me," Harry hissed, pulling back quickly. Was everyone in this world trained with some superior form of Occlumency at young age, and the only ones free of it were babies? That was… extremely annoying. What use would he had for a little baby's body, when there would be nothing he could do? And he was definitely not sitting on some little kid for five to six years or more until he could get a move on, definitely not!

Growling to himself, Harry folded his arms. Maybe he would have to let Sephiroth's case pass. I happened very rarely but it did happen, and he wouldn't feel any remorse for moving on without resolving the issues the kid had. It would irritate him more than anything - there was always some level of excitement in learning the dirty secrets and magnificent powers of new world, but he wasn't willing to suffer so much irritation for that. There were always newer, simpler world he could go to. Living as a kid, a kid who would no doubt be tested and experimented and borderline tortured, until the kid was old enough to be of some use… not bloody likely.

Unless it wasn't the fact that the kid was a kid, but the fact that she was new at the facility. If Harry had got it right, Hojo had caught Ifalna and her kid recently. Which meant…

Harry turned to the woman, who was now sobbing silently, having realised that no one was listening to her. She was still straining against her binds and her wrists looked red and little bloody in their metallic binds. Spirited. Harry rubbed a hand over his chin and then stepped forward and in front of her, reaching out to touch her now slightly sweaty brown hair.

Falling into her mind was so easy, that it very nearly felt like he had tripped down the stairs and into abyss. He crashed down to some strange surface before he even knew it, and found himself suddenly in fire lit living room. Then, before he could even look around for more details, the woman was there with him, standing before him and looking surprised.

"What?" she asked quietly, blinking at him.

"Hullo," Harry answered, not bothering to stand up. The spiritual manifestation of a rug he was sitting on was too comfortable. "Sorry to drop in you like this, but mind of I stay for a bit? Everyone else here is _so_ inhospitable."

"What?" Ifalna asked again, now more sharply. "Who are you, how did you - are you one of Hojo's -?" she started, and then stopped, frowning. "No," she said, and crouched down before him, frowning. She too had green eyes, but not quite like Sephiroth did. They didn't glow. "You feel strange. You aren't human."

"How rude," Harry answered and then frowned in return, leaning in a little to get a better feel of her. "Well hello, Mrs. Pot. I'm Kettle," he said, and laughed, getting a strange look from the woman. "Old saying from the world I'm from, never mind that," he said, shifting from his lotus position into a kneeling one so that he could lean in more easily. "You are interesting, my dear. Where ever did you get so much power?"

The woman leaned back a little, giving him an uneasy look. "You are not from this world."

"Yes, and you're _so_ from this world, I can barely tell the two of you apart!" Harry answered, delighted. "My this world is proving out to be utterly fascinating. Irritating and overly complicated with the most basic of things, but fascinating nonetheless." He leaned in a little closer, and bumped his forehead into hers making her make a noise of objection. "Oh, I see," he said, feeling more of her. "Old race, so interwoven with the energies of this world that you might as well be two parts of one whole. I _love_ that."

"Who are you? What are you?" the woman asked, and closed her eyes, not waiting for answers but instead pushing her head against his and _seeking them_. Harry laughed with utter delight, feeling her slipping into his mind and memories - and most likely seeing more than she would've liked. With a gasp she pulled back, lifting her hands to her forehead like it would stop the pounding spiritual headache she had gotten. "Oh. _Oh_ you poor creature," she whispered. "You pitiful thing."

Harry chuckled. "You didn't see enough, if you think that," he said. "My existence is old and strange and most likely cursed beyond belief, but I love it."

"Rejected by your own world, due to no fault of your own," she whispered. "I pity you."

"And I pity you and everyone else chained to theirs. So let's not start pointing the big fingers of sympathy here," Harry answered, laughing. "You saw in me so you know what I do and why I'm here," he said. "What do you think, Ancient-lady?"

"That kid. Sephiroth," Ifalna murmured, rubbing her forehead. "You know nothing about him."

"He managed to call me so I know enough," Harry answered, though that did sort of hit a sore note. He usually knew more - he usually took over his summoner's body and always had easy access to all the information he needed. Having Sephiroth reject him had been, well. Goddamn inconvenient. Shaking his head the wizard raised a single eyebrow at her. She was giving him a strange look again, stranger than before oddly enough. "What do _you_ know about him?"

"My husband, Gast… he used to be the chief scientist of ShinRa - of this very facility. The research Hojo does here, Gast used to do it. He told me some of it. He told me of Sephiroth," the woman said, frowning and looking away thoughtfully. "Hojo's insane desire to make a perfect soldier - a perfect being - by using the cells of the Calamity. Gast feared how badly it could go…"

"And you were kidnapped by Hojo after he killed his predecessor, your husband - all the while he's performing experiments on his own son? Damn this place is full of family drama," Harry laughed, leaning back a little and sitting back down again. "But that doesn't interest me. There's a kid to be saved and whole lot of people to be killed along the way and I need a body to do it. Are you in, lady, or are you not?"

The woman gave him a somewhat helpless scowl, and he grinned, feeling her thoughts. She was a pacifist to the point of naivety, it was in her blood. The mere concept of hurting people, even after they had hurt her, disgusted her. But in the same time she was aware of her daughters screams and what could happen - what probably would happen - not to her kid and to herself, but to Planet knew how many others. Sephiroth and Aeris and Ifalna were only the tip of a very large mountain.

Who knew, Hojo might even force her have more children, if he concluded that recreating the Cetra race, her old and nearly extinct people, was worth his time. Maybe even try and mingle them and Jenova's cells in unholy union of forces so completely opposite that existing in the same planet was killing them.

Harry could stop that. Stop it all - and more. Only he would do it in a way that would kill her on the inside, by using her body.

Ifalna swallowed, while Harry's grin widened. Two evils, him or Hojo. What a tough choice.

"I wouldn't be able to stop you. I can feel that. You're too…" the woman shook her head and looked away. "And I'm not your summoner, I mean nothing to you. Your mind over mine might kill me. So tell me… what, what would happen to Aeris?"

"Your kid?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. "I could lug her around just as well. She's compact size," he answered. "You won't die, Ifalna. I would just make use of you until I've done what I do best and after that your body would be yours."

She nodded slowly, swallowing. "Alright," she whispered. "Alright. So as long you save my daughter. I will… I won't… you can do what you want."

"Good choice," Harry answered, and leaned forward to flick her nose gently with his finger. "You might want to avert your pacifist eyes, because I most certainly are not one," he warned her and then pushed her gently aside, and claimed her form.

And what a form it was. Not quite what he was used to. Powerful, but in a way that was almost no use to him. He had never felt such a _healer_ before, but that was what Ifalna was. Surging with the pure energy of life, and power to take hurt away. It was so sweet and so pure that it made Harry wonder for a moment if it was a good idea after all. He was not exactly a white wizard himself.

But it was the easiest choice - next to leaving the city and trying to find someone uncontaminated by Mako. He almost laughed at that, at the knowledge that these people had somehow gained the most powerful Occlumency he had ever encountered, from their version of harmful radiation. Ifalna and Aeris, it seemed, were probably the only to people in the place without that, because they had both lived outside the sphere of influence Mako had, but everyone else had it in their very cells, making them spiritually impenetrable.

_It is not waste, exactly. Mako is the lifeblood of the Planet,_ Ifalna whispered to him, as Harry opened his - her - eyes. _ShinRa Electric Power Company, of which Hojo and his faculty are part of, discovered a way to pump that power, that energy, from the Planet. Now there are reactors far and wide, though nowhere near as many as there are in here, in Midgar. Here the energy is most abundant - here people are most contaminated._

And even as _harmful waste_, that energy protected it's beings. Harry snorted silently, while looking at the laboratory. Aeris was whimpering on the table where the scientists had left her, and most of them were concentrated onto filing or studying the samples they had taken. What a messed up place.

_Shall we be crude or shall we be sneaky?_ Harry mused more to himself even as he directed the question at Ifalna. _Or shall we be monstrous?_

Sneaky was her immediate option. Harry himself rather liked the monstrous one, but she had a point. They were in the most secure facility of the Planet, one brimming with soldier folk and such. Being loud and noisy and bloody would've gotten them noticed - and Ifalna's body, while powerful in her own way, was not a fighter.

Harry glanced around, noting the security cameras, all six of them. He suspected that it wasn't all - the place looked technological enough to have motion sensors and hear sensors and whatnot. If he did anything flashy, the whole building would probably know immediately.

_Sneaky it is,_ he answered to the woman he was inhabiting and then turned his eyes to Hojo. "There is.., there is something I need to tell you," he said, letting Ifalna's voice waver as he did. "Something Gast said. It's… it's important."

Hojo turned to him, blinking. "About what?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

Harry contemplated and then bet on, "Jenova." It was the winning bet, by the looks of the way Hojo's eyes flashed with interest.

"Very well then," the scientist said, lifting his chin. "What is it? Be quick about it, woman."

"Are you _sure_ you want everyone here to hear?" Harry asked, and nearly grinned, as Hojo narrowed his eyes and then, like humouring him immediately had the laboratory emptied. Then the scientist gave him an expectant look, only to have Harry glance at the cameras and lift an eyebrow meaningfully.

"Well then," Hojo muttered, now seeming impatient, as he walked forward and bowed low so that Harry could whisper to him. "Tell me what is it," the scientist demanded.

Harry smiled and pressed his lips to the man's cheek. "Imperio," he whispered, grinning. Ifalna squirmed with disgust somewhere in the back of his mind, while Hojo pulled back, frowning and turning away like having heard something he didn't like. Harry let himself - let Ifalna's body - smile with satisfaction, as Hojo called to the scientists back so that they could usher "Ifalna" and her daughter into a cell. Conveniently enough, into the cell right beside Sephiroth's cell.

Sometimes people were such delightful fools.

xx

It thought it would be fun, to write this Harry again but in another world, and since I kind of slipped of to enjoy the ff7 fandom, this thought was born. I will probably not write more of it, and if I will I will completely rewrite this idea and maybe use another "summoner" for Harry because writing a story at this point of the ff7 timeline is kind of awkward... Though the thought of Harry taking down whole of ShinRa whilst in the body of Ifalna and lugging around 7 year old Sephiroth and month old Aeris could be interesting...

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	35. Knight of Fayth, HP x FF10

Warnings; Who knows. Oocness, maybe. Oh, and character's non death. Harry Potter and Final Fantasy X crossover thing, with no actual canon characters from FFX appearing. Wark.

**Knight of Fayth**

Someone or something was singing.

Harry floated in the nothingness of space, listening to the distant song idly. It sounded like a hymn - though he wasn't entirely sure, it had been a long while since he had heard any sort of singing, and hymns had never been high on his list of things to listen. He had never been much on music in any way. The fact that he wasn't even sure how long it had been since he had heard anything made him perk up a little, though.

He had missed sounds - and even if it was a hymn, it was good to just _hear_ something after so long.

Concentrating, he turned towards the sound, listening to it with all he had. There was a voice of a male, deep and resounding. Then there was a boy's voice, high and ringing like silver. A woman's voice in the middle, proud and emotional at the same time. And then there was a group of people, their voices mixed into sweet union, turning the song into a symphony. Unable to help himself, Harry breathed the sound in. The song sounded oddly simplistic in its beauty - he suspect that after a while he'd know the lyrics by heart, even if he would never have any idea what they said, exactly. Still, it was a nice sound.

"It's a world," a voice said behind him, and idly he turned to the new sound. A hooded boy stood there, standing on nothing, his face shadowed. "It has been singing for millennia now. We have been singing. But no one's heard."

"It's nice," Harry said, turning away again. He spent a fleeting moment marvelling that he still could remember how to speak - and that he had a _voice_ left. He wasn't entirely sure he had a body left any more - along the time he had spent, floating in nothingness, he had lost things bit by bit. Memories, body parts. Only the force of his magic had remained, holding him together, holding onto his existence in place where he shouldn't have been able to survive. Wouldn't, if he still had been alive.

"Is it?" the boy asked, shifting forward. Harry could feel his gaze on his back - even if he wasn't sure if he had a back to be stared at. "How do you hear it?"

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. "Maybe I don't."

"But you do," the boy disagreed, and then he was beside Harry. Beneath them there was a glowing world, blue and green and white. It felt warm under Harry, but oddly painful. "You are from a world too. But not this one," the boy noted.

"Yes. My world slept away long time ago," Harry agreed, sighing. Long, long ago. The muggles has gone to a war and the magic had drained itself out trying to hide from it and then Earth had pulled on a blanket of snow. Then it had slumbered off, taking all the life with it. All, but the ghosts that hadn't been able to move on, hadn't wanted to. "It left me, I think - or maybe I slipped away. It's hard to tell."

The boy at his side said nothing for a moment, and they floated in silence, listening to the world below them sing. "It is infected," the boy suddenly said. "By a dream. And that dream keeps alive a monstrosity that keeps us alive, and dreaming - because while it exists we cannot fade, and while we exist we must dream, and while we dream we are used to combat the monstrosity. And for as long as the fighting remains, the monstrosity will be reborn."

Harry smiled - or maybe he emoted it, who knew. "My world never managed to invent the perpetual motion machine," he remembered.

"And we cannot undo ours," the boy said. He was quiet for a moment, while the song intensified below them. "Help," he finally said, quietly. "Help us."

Harry turned, away from the song and towards the boy. "I am dead," he said calmly, but somewhat admonishingly. "I died thousands and thousands of years ago." It was silly to think he could do anything at this point. "And I've been floating since my Earth slept away. I'm nothing but a wraith, if even that."

"In Spira, dead spirits can retake their bodies - if they want to," the ghost whispered. "The magic of Spira, the magic of our souls, remakes life when ever it gets the chance. All you need to do is step upon the soul and you will be alive again."

Harry remained quiet for a moment. It was tempting, by Merlin, it was tempting. He hadn't felt _anything_ for so long. To have a body, hands, feet, to be able to feel and move and see. Just to feel _gravity_ again... But he still remembered how tiresome life had been, in comparison to how easy death was. And he hadn't forgotten the hard lessons of life. "Why me?" he asked. "And what exactly do you need to be saved from? Your dream? The monstrosity?"

"From the spiral of events endlessly repeating. Break the chain," the boy begged. "Give us our rest."

Harry nodded slowly. It didn't really tell him anything - but he could feel the desperation, and the long, long history in the boy's words. A battle after a battle after a battle - a rebirth after rebirth after rebirth. "Why me?" he asked again. "I am nothing."

"You're first not from this world to hear the song," the boy answered. "Many have passed over Spira along the years. None have listened. You did. It means something."

It only meant that he had some version of hearing left, but Harry didn't say that - there was something more going on here. Something else - something special. Not just the song, or the boy who wasn't a boy, taking in space where there was supposed to be no sound. Maybe it wasn't happening at all - maybe it was in Harry's head. It wouldn't be his first strange fantasy along the long, long years of drifting.

But the planet below him was warm and shining and it was pulling him with the promise of gravity and wind and the feel of ground below his feet - not to mention about having those feet to feel it with. It had been so long.

"You will have to guide me," he said, as he begun to fall to the welcoming arms of gravity. "I don't know what to do."

"We'll be with you," the boy's voice promised, fading away. "Thank you."

x

The first thing Harry saw was the sky. It was beautiful, blue seemingly infinite with some wisps of glowing whit drifting slowly past. He had forgotten what atmospheres looked like, when you saw them from inside out rather than the other way. From space, a sky looked so small, a thin little layer wrapped around enormous orbs - but from this angle it looked really never ending.

The wind that was idly tugging onto his hair made him finally realise that he was actually seeing the sky - that _he_ was _seeing_ the _sky_. With a sharp breath, he sat up, slightly surprised he could still remember how to move in a body, and more than slightly shocked that he actually had one again. Body that breathed - which had a torso and hands and, yes, hair too. And eyes and nose.

"Blimey, the wind smells nice!" he gasped, the first words he said on Spira. At that point he didn't care about how monumental that was - because it was true, the wind smelled excellent. Fresh and grassy and a little moist and just _free_. With a shivery sigh Harry closed his eyes and just breathed in. Merlin it had been ages - he had forgotten what it was like, to be able to smell.

"_How_ long have you been dead?" the boy's voice asked from behind him.

Harry didn't open his eyes, only breathed deep again. The feel of his lungs filling was incredible. "I never counted. Tens of thousands of years maybe, who knows," he answered, and then let himself fall to his side on the grass, turning to lay on his belly so that he could nuzzle his nose into the grass, into the earth. In space there was no time - it had been easy not to count. "I like your world," he murmured dreamily, and plucked a blade of grass from the ground with his teeth, wanting to know if it tasted as good as it smelled.

It tasted better.

"I can see that," the boy said. "I'm glad."

"Hmm," Harry answered, and for a moment everything was perfect and he was the most content he had ever been, just smelling and tasting the grass. The boy said nothing for a long while, seemingly content letting him be content, which for Harry worked just fine. He was certain he could spend a small eternity here, embracing the grass, and so as long nothing bothered him, he figured he might as well start that eternity now.

When the reality finally breached through his haze of being just so darned comfortable, it was in form of sharp tug on his hair. More confused than annoyed or shocked, Harry lifted his head from the grass, and looked up to see what or who had bothered him. Instead of seeing a person or anything like that - he couldn't even see the weird hooded kid - he saw a pair of sharp talons just beside him. Following them up, he saw a firm bird's - or maybe dinosaur's - leg. The bright expanse of yellow feathers disproved the dinosaur idea - and then the great bird bowed down again, and tugged on his hair again.

"Oi," Harry said idly, tugging back before waving his arm at the creature. "Get off. Shoo. Whatever you are. Go away."

The bird didn't, only let out a strange "kweh" sound, and then butted its great dark orange beak against his waving hand in friendly nudge - that nearly broke his fingers.

"It's a chocobo," the boy said from behind him as Harry hurriedly drew his hand back, shaking some feeling back to his impact-shocked fingers. "They are common."

Glancing at him, Harry sighed and pushed himself up and to his knees, turning to the bird. It was bigger than an ostrich - about as big as a hippogriff, actually, but fully bird rather than any sort of combination of animals. As he looked up to it, the bird flapped it's stunted wings excitedly and warbled at him - before moving forward and head putting him lightly, warbling again. "You're a friendly fella aren't you?" Harry asked, amused as the bird warbled some more, and then cooed as he scratched the underside of its chin. "Tame, maybe?"

The boy, who seemed to loom somewhere in the corner of his eyes, said nothing for a moment. "There are things to do," he then said, moving forward a little. As he did, Harry could see some strange light flickering about him, and glancing behind him he saw odd balls of light with shimmering tails flickering around the boy. The boy himself, formerly seeming so solid, was no grey and transparent. A spirit, maybe.

"Breaking your chain, yeah," the wizard agreed, reaching out and poking one of the lights buzzing around the kid. It flew right through his finger, making it tingle. "In how much a hurry are we?" he asked, pulling his hand back and rubbing his fingers together. It felt like magic - but nothing like it.

"Much and not at all. Sin isn't going anywhere," the boy answered.

"Sin?" the wizard asked, frowning slightly. "If you want me to fight for your ideals of right and wrong -"

"No, not that sort of sin. Sin is what we call the monstrosity," the boy answered, stepping forward, the strange lights whirling. "Ask about it," he suggested, fading away. "Everyone knows at least a little."

Frowning, Harry eyed the spot the boy had faded away from, before the yellow bird at his side called for his attention again by head butting his shoulder and nearly sending him to the grass on his side. Laughing softly and shaking his head, the wizard turned to the bird, shifting to crouched position and wrapping his arms around the creature's head, digging his fingers into its feathers and scratching.

It smelled nice too.

As the chocobo cooed and warbled with delight, Harry cast a glance around them, wondering where they were and where he could ask about Sin. All he could see was grassy hills all around him and, little to the left, some other yellow birds who were idly clawing at the ground or eating the grass. They seemed not to even notice him - which indicated that they were used to humans.

"Okay," Harry murmured, standing up with his arm casually across the chocobo's neck, still scratching. "Let's see then…"

He glanced down to himself, taking in hid new body in full detail for the first time. It looked… about right. He couldn't remember all the details of himself, but the shortness of his form was somewhat familiar. He was wearing a long black jacket that reminded him a bit of his old robes, and rest of his clothes were more or less familiar too. As was his hair, messy and black as it was.

He could work with it, the wizard decided. It looked about functional enough and there were worse things. Like, not having a body. "Okay," he nodded and looked at the chocobo again. "Now, how about we try and see if we can find your owner."

Walking, he realised after couple of steps, was incredible too. As was the feel of wind in his hair, and the sound of it moving through the grass, the kwehs and warks the chocobo let out. Gravity too - having it hold him forcibly to the ground, instead of t having to be a conscious choice on his part. Flying as a ghost had always been fun - but the feel of strain on his knees and ankles as he took his steps… it was an odd thing to miss, but he had.

Just for that, he decided, Spira was worth saving.

x

It took him nearly an hour to find a trail and a couple of more to finally see some sort of settlement in the distance. Harry didn't mind it at all. Walking, hearing, smelling… he could've easily taken a couple of days walking and not felt the slightest bit bored. On top of that, the chocobo had apparently decided to follow him because it had barely left his side the entire way, only running a little ahead at times and then returning to head butt him or demand a scratch before running ahead again. Its excited warbling kept him entertained when ever the wind died down.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at, when the settlement came into view from behind a hill. It looked like an odd tent, except not. Or maybe a pavilion or some sort of leisure stopping point, but again, not really. In the end he stopped guessing and just made his way over, the chocobo following him a little more cautiously as they came to the circled area around the thing. Only there sights of the advertisements set up here and there made him figure out that the place wasn't a settlement - but a shop.

"Hi there!" the salesperson greeted him. The counter was right in the front of the tent-building thing, and she was waving over it at him in fairly friendly manner. "Are you part of Captain Adrak's group?"

Harry smiled. "Nope," he answered with equal amount of cheerfulness. What an awesome thing to be, cheerful. Ghosts rarely got to feel that. "Who's Captain Adrak?"

"But you have a chocobo… ah, never mind. Captain Adrak's people have been here all the time in the last week or so, I've gotten used to seeing them come around with their mounts, sorry about that," the salesperson said, smiling at him. "He's the Commander of the Bevelle's Knights - they've been training here for the week or so."

"And they're known to travel with chocobos?" Harry asked, giving the bird that had been following him a look. Yeah, he could see it - the bird was certainly big enough and fast enough and probably strong enough to be used as a mount. "Neat," he said, and turned back to the woman. "So. I'm a bit lost," he said. "Can you tell me where I am, exactly?"

He expected ridicule or incredulity, but the woman only chuckled. "People always get lost here - the Calm Lands look about the same everywhere," she said, reaching below the counter and bringing out the map. "Here," she said, beckoning him closer. There was a map of what looked like wide plains, with mountains at all side. "We're here," she pointed at the left side of the map. "The way up to Mt Gagazet is here - and here you can go to the Macalania woods and through them to Bevelle - the Macalania temple on other hand is here…"

Harry nodded here and there, while eying the map. "What's the scale on this thing?" he asked, and she explained soon that to reach either the Mt. Gagazet road or the Macalania forest would take him probably days on foot "Right," he nodded, leaning to the counter with his elbows. He had no way to know which way to go, or if he was even supposed to go to either direction, but it was probably important information, so he pressed it all to his memory.

"So, you need anything else, except for directions?" the woman asked hopefully. "I have great stock here - maps, compasses, potions, gear, weapons. Anything you need to cross the Calm Lands, I have it right here. I'm especially well stocked on armour at the moment - with the Knights here, I've put in a little extra."

"I'm sure you have," Harry smiled. "Sorry, you won't make much a bargain with me. I'm penniless," he admitted sheepishly.

"Oh, pity," she sighed, and wrapped the map away.

"You could help me with something, though, unless you're terribly busy," Harry added, glancing around. Aside from him, her and the chocobo who was munching on some longer grass growing on the side of the shop-tent, there wasn't a soul anywhere near to be seen. "You could tell me everything you know about Sin."

"Sin?" the woman asked, and then frowned. "You don't know."

"Of course I know," Harry answered smoothly. "But you see, I'm collecting this chronicle about what people know about Sin. Old stories, what they've heard from their parents, stuff like that."

"Oh, you're a writer," she nodded knowingly, as if everything suddenly made sense. "Will you put my name into the book?"

"If you want me to," Harry nodded smoothly.

"Okay, sweet. My name is Dnana - make sure to remember that," the woman grinned, leaning over the counter. "So, what do you want to know?"

"Anything. Everything," Harry said, and then snapped his fingers as if getting an idea. "I know. Pretend that I've never heard of Sin in my life - that I'm from some weird place where Sin's never been. Or that I'm alien from another planet. Anything. Just, tell me the whole thing the way you see it as if I know nothing about anything."

Dnana giggled softly. "Alright," she said, before tapping her chin with two fingers. "Okay, where to begin. I can't remember how old I was when I first heard of Sin. I think my mom told me stories about it when I was really little, you know, long, long before I can remember - because I can't remember never not knowing about him, you know?"

"Yeah. Go on," Harry nodded.

"Shouldn't you be writing this down?"

"I've got good memory - trust me, I'll remember every word you say perfectly," Harry promised.

"Okay then," she said a bit suspiciously, before getting a thoughtful look about her face. "The first time saw Sin, I was about six years old. It was a picture, you know - someone had taken it just before Sin attacked Kilika. Well, one of the many times Sin attacked Kilika. I couldn't really get any feel to it back then - because really, Sin is so big that when you see only part of it, it looks like great blob, you know?"

"How big, would you say?" Harry asked thoughtfully. Monstrous really meant a great big whopping monster, then?

"I don't know. I don't think anyone's ever measured Sin - but I think, if Sin jumped on Luca, you couldn't see the town from beneath it. It's so big," Dnana said with a thoughtful nod. "Maybe a bit of the edges, but not much more. I haven't really given it much a thought really, because it's Sin, you know. It's just… so big"

Harry nodded. "What was the first thing you've ever heard of Sin doing?"

"The attack on Kilika," the woman nodded.

"Pretend I don't know what Kilika is, and explain it to me, okay?"# Harry asked, giving her a charming smile. "Alien from another world here, right?"

"Right," she nodded, grinning. "Okay, so, Kilika. It's this small island, far to south - below Luca and above Besaid. There's a temple there, I think Summoners get Ifrit there, but I'm not sure. Anyway, Kilika has these rain forests, yeah? And they're full of fiends, like, Marlboros and stuff - so people can't lie there, but they can't leave the island either, because the temple is here and you can't exactly move a temple. So, theKilikaVillageis on the shore - little past the shore, actually, it's like on stilts above the water. Never been there, but I hear it's beautiful.

"Anyway," she continued. "Sin mostly hangs around water - and Kilika is, well, kind of vulnerable the way it is. It's just wood, on stilts, above water. So, when ever Sin as much as passes the place by, splash, crack, boom!" Dnana slapped her hands together. "Gone. But Kilika island has a temple so it has to have a harbour too, so they rebuild it again and again after Sin destroys it, because they don't have much a choice. Kilika's village been wiped out like eight times in the time I've been alive."

"Ouch," Harry murmured. "You'd think that give the people enough incentive to brace the jungles."

"You'd think, but I guess the fiends are too strong. They're like between rock and hard place," Dnana shrugged sadly. "Anyway. The first thing I remember Sin doing in my life is that. I think there was like a spawn attack there that time - usually the Kilika village is taken out by tidal waves and stuff, but I remember it being spawns that time."

"Alien from another world, remember?" Harry asked, raising eyebrows. "Spawns."

"Ah, yeah, sorry. Spawns are like these things that grow out of Sin. Where ever he goes, the spawns appear. I think I heard a priest or someone once say that Sin sheds them like dandruff of something - they just fall off Sin. And then they attack anything near by that as much as moves," Dnana said, and shuddered. "I've seen a couple close by. They're like your average fiends - except creepy."

"Okay," Harry nodded slowly. So, aside from Sin and spawns and whatnot, there were also _average fiends_? What an interesting world. "And attacks on places like Kilika, they happen often?"

"Once a month you hear that sin's attacked this ship or this village or this settlement," Dnana shrugged her shoulders. "He's seen like several times a week here and there, and it creeps people out every time. I was born in Bevelle you know - and every time anyone as much whispered that Sin was seen close by, the entire town went into panic. You never know when and where Sin attack - if he's seen close by, it's never a good sign."

"And did it? Attack Bevelle, that is?" Harry asked.

"Couple of times. I was about… fifteen, I think. Yeah, I was fifteen, when Sin attacked Bevelle - it was scary as hell, you know. It was just hanging there, in the air, and I really thought it would just drop down and crush everything. But the Bevelle Wyrm and the Warrior Monks and the Chocobo Knights, I think they drove it away."

So, the Sin could fly - and it could be driven away? Harry nodded slowly. "Bevelle Wyrm?" he asked.

"Yeah, Evrae. It guards the city," Dnana answered. "I've no idea where it's come from. Some thing it's an Aeon, but who knows. It's been protecting Bevelle since for ever - my grandfather told me stories about it and everything."

"Okay," the wizard nodded. Wyrms that guarded the cities from Sin. "So. Where do you think Sin comes from?"

Dnana was quiet for a moment before frowning. "The priest at my school said that Sin came to be because of the sacrilegious actions of people - because long ago, we made machina and did horrible things with them. My granddad, though, he said that no one knows. He was a crusader when he was a young - he was part of the Siege of Luca Bay, so he must've known what he was talking about. Sin's just always been there. Maybe it's because of machina and stuff, or maybe it's there just… because it is there. I'm no Summoner, so, what do I know, right?" she asked, laughing softly, mirthlessly.

"Summoner?" Harry asked, and as she gave him another strange look, he smiled. "Alien from another world, me," he said, pointing at himself.

"Right, right. Sorry. Uhm. Summoners, they're the ones who defeat Sin. They go to these pilgrimages, they get all the Aeons - that is, the creatures they summon, you know. And then they go to Zanarkand - they go through here you know - and then… then they defeat Sin. Well some do. It was almost ten years since it happened the last time."

The woman sighed. "I was just about seventeen, when High Summoner Braska defeated Sin," Dnana said, sounding a little wistful. "I remember how it was, afterwards. The parties in Bevelle, they lasted for a week - everyone was so happy. And for a complete year after that, it was quiet. Not a single word about Sin, not a whisper, no attack. You could go anywhere and just know that there would be nothing to worry about. The best year of my life, the Calm."

Harry eyed her quietly. "And then Sin came back?" he asked.

"It always does," Dnana nodded sadly. "My granddad said that when he was young, there was a Calm that lasted almost three years. Three years, can you believe it? It's been ten years since the last Calm - and that only lasted for one year. It's unfair."

"I really can't," the wizard said quietly. "If the High Summoners can defeat Sin - why don't they do it right after the Calm ends?"

The woman gave him a strange looks. "You only become a High Summoner if you defeat Sin. And I don't think I've ever heard of High Summoner, who survived after defeating Sin."

"…oh," the wizard murmured looking away. Well that explained a few things. Summoners went to pilgrimages to defeat Sin - and died, if they actually managed it. Year or three later, Sin returned and another Summoner went through the same ordeal, and died at the end of it. Rinse and repeat. But how? How could you defeat something - only to have it return after year or so? What was Sin - did it have a horcrux somewhere, or something?

"You say that Summoners go through here to, um, where?"

"Zanarkand. All Summoners go there from here and through Mt. Gagazet," Dnana nodded, pointing towards north - where, Harry supposed, the entrance to Mt Gagazet was. "That's where the final Aeon is, I hear, in the ruins of Zanarkand. Except lot of them don't. They come here and then they get cold feet, and then they go home. I've seen something like dozen Summoners here - none of them even went to Mt Gagazet, not to mention about Zanarkand."

Harry nodded slowly, wondering if Zanarkand was where he was supposed to go. "How does summoning work?" he asked thoughtfully.

Dnana shrugged. "The Summoners pray to the Fayth in the temples. That's about all I know. Well, they go through some trials and stuff," she said and shook her head. "I don't really know."

Praying. Well, that would be out, Harry mused. He had never prayed to anything, and whatever the _fayth_ were, he wasn't going to pray to them either. "Aside from the Summoners, are there anything else - anyone else - that could possibly try and defeat it?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Well, there's the Crusaders - but they've been crusading to defeat Sin for as long as I can remember, and they never had. They can sometimes hold it at bay - like with Bevelle and stuff - but yeah, that's about it. The warrior monks maybe… nah, they just protect Bevelle and the temples I think, and that's it. There's the Chocobo Knights too, but they're pretty much the same as Crusades, except they ride chocobos. They're pretty new, though, so who knows. Maybe they'll make a difference," Dnana said thoughtfully. "They've been training like mad here for the last days, so, maybe they've got some idea about what to do…"

Harry nodded. "Anything else?"

"Well, some say the Al Bhed try too, with forbidden machina and all, but I try not to think too deeply into that," she admitted. "My boss is an Al Bhed."

Harry considered asking who or what the Al Bhed were, but decided against it because of the look of unease on the woman's face. "Okay, thanks. I think I got what I needed," he said, nodding. "So, those knights training here, under that Captain Agros, was it? They're Chocobo Knights?"

"Captain _Adrak_, and yeah," Dnana nodded, looking relieved that he had changed the subject.

Since summoning was out and everything else seemed a bit long-shot - and because of the convenience of being at the same place at the same time… it wouldn't hurt to try. "You wouldn't happen to know where, exactly, they're training in here?" he asked, while looking at the chocobo that had taken a liking to him, wondering how well it would take to a saddle.

x

After getting directions and wishes for good luck from Dnana, Harry and the chocobo that was still following set out again, making their way across the grassy pains of Calm Lands. While walking the wizard thought through all he had heard, wondering. So many things to remember and investigate. Sin itself was getting a better shape in his head, but the rest of it…. Monks, knights, crusaders, Summoners, wyrms, Al Bhed what ever they were and so forth.

He couldn't wait to learn more.

"Really interesting world," he murmured to himself, stretching his arms and then throwing one of them around the chocobo's neck, as it came close enough to push at his shoulder compassionately again. "And you too. You're interesting too. Do you belong to the Chocobo Knights, perhaps? Or are you really just a wild thing that took a liking to me? Hm?" he asked, but as he scratched the underside of the bird's beak, it only warbled happily and didn't answer.

After hour or so walking, things other than Sin and Spira and how good everything smelled started to finally come to the Wizard. As he watched how the chocobo clawed some sort of root from the ground and ate it happily, he had to wonder about why he wasn't getting hungry at all. It had been… four, five hours since he had gotten a body, but he wasn't even feeling slightest bit like he ought to eat something.

"Kid? Boy? Ghostly fella with sprinkles on top, you here anywhere?" he asked, glancing around himself until he caught the shadowy shape of the boy in the corner of his eye. "Sorry to bother you whatever you were doing, but this body - do I need to feed it?"

"Your physical form is the construction of your spirit and memories, given shape by the powers of this world," the boy answered. "You cannot die because you aren't alive."

"So, that's a no then," Harry murmured. If he couldn't starve to death it made sense his body wouldn't need any food. "Won't it be a bit suspicious if I never need to eat? Do I need to sleep?" he wondered.

"You don't need to, but you can," the boy said. "Eat too, only you will get nothing from it."

"Okay. Neat," the wizard nodded slowly. Being dead in this place was a much sweeter deal than being dead back on Earth - there the best he had been able to do was float around and occasionally scare people. Here he got all the perks of being human without the weaknesses. "How many dead people are there here? Mean, do they all get this?" he asked, pointing at himself. If everyone could get it, then the place ought to be full of walking dead."

"Some. More than necessary, perhaps. Not all can, though, most get corrupt," the boy answered. "And a Summoner has a power to send the dead onwards, and to the Farplane."

"That your version of Afterlife?" Harry mused. "And sending is your version of exorcism. Okay. How does that work - and can people tell that I'm dead? Because if some Summoner will just know, that will be a bit awkward."

"If you take steps, they will not know - and a sending is a prayer that takes time, if you are fast enough you can avoid it," the ghost boy answered. He hesitated for a moment. "We, that is… the Fayth know you are here. We can… take steps to protect you from such things."

"If I'm to save you lot, I'd suggest you get to it. Much good I will do to you all if someone just ups and prays me out of this world," Harry answered before frowning. "You're the Fayth?" he asked. "The Fayth Summoners pray to get their Aeons or whatever? How does _that_ work?"

The boy explained. The way Harry figured it was that the Aeons were creatures of spirit magic, that people's souls gave form to. The souls were attached to crystals or whatever, and when a Summoner took enough time to ask for it, the soul of the Aeon, or the Fayth, granted him or her the ability to call the Aeon - by linking that Summoner to itself and to the Aeon, somehow.

So, basically, the temples housed the horcruxes of aeons and the power of Spira could go as far as to multiply the body for that horxcux if it was called right? No, that probably wasn't it, but trying to fit it into the terms of Earth's magic made it simpler for Harry. It had been so long, but it still made better sense to Harry than the other stuff.

"And there's how many of the Aeons?"

"Eight, and the Final Summoning, which works differently," the boy explained. "Most Summoners only find half of them."

"Okay," Harry nodded before giving the boy a look. "I hope you don't expect me to get them all - or any of them - because me and praying, we've never gotten along. Especially since I died."

The boy looked a bit taken aback for a moment, before he let out a small chuckle. "I don't know," he admitted. "We were ready to give the Aeons to you, but if you don't want them… what way do you think you can help us?"

"I don't know," Harry shrugged and grinned. "We'll see, shall we?"

He found the camp of the Chocobo Knights shortly before the sun started setting and the air started to get a hint of coolness to it. He nearly missed the entire camp as he enjoyed the new smell in the wind, and in the end only ended up not missing it thanks to the chocobo, who started kwehing and warbling - to which several others chocobos warbled and kwehed back in greeting.

The camp was pretty simple, Harry noted as he approached. There were some tents and fences made from wooden poles that were connected by ropes. The chocobos were penned up in the rope fences, while some armoured people practiced with swords and lances while others tended to some chocobos on the side. One of them Harry noted with fascination, was fitting some sort of armour onto one of the chocobos. It looked fairly impressive.

As he walked closer and the people noticed him, he was greeted by waves and calls before couple of people approached him, eying him and the chocobo that was nuzzling into his shoulder anxiously, from between looking and warbling at the other chocobos. "Are you here to join?" a dark haired man with no-nonsense type of face asked, his chest plate impressively full of scratches.

Harry nodded. "Sure," he said, and grinned. He hadn't thought it would be so easy. "Where can I sign up?"

It turned out to be a bit easier - there was no signing up. Apparently aside from being there to train, the Knights had also posted several recruitment posters all over the place in hopes of getting new recruits. He was among the few that had turned up.

"People tend to rather go to the Crusaders - think they are bigger and better organised, not to mention under the command of the church," Captain Adrak explained, after hearing that Harry had heard of them from the merchant of the Calm Lands. "It is true, of course, but we Chocobo Knights are much more flexible, and we obviously travel lighter and faster. Now, what kind of experience do you have?"

Harry eyed field, where some senior knights were instructing their newest recruits on how to hold lances. "Some, sir. I've ridden feathery creatures before and I've held a sword. Never done both at the same time, though - or either in excessive amounts," he said thoughtfully. "I've seen battles though."

"Excellent," Adrak clapped his heavily gloved hands together before standing up and looking over at one of the tents, where slightly elder man was scowling at a badly chipped sword. "Let's see how you do with a sword then. Oi, Tar, you think we got training armour that will fit - what was your name again?"

"It's Harry, sir," the wizard answered, standing up as well.

"Hm. Unusual name. Okay, armour for Harry here - and get me some training swords!"

While the chocobo that had been following him made friends with the other chocobos, Harry was lead to an open area near the tents, where the slightly elder man named Tar handed him and Adrak a pair of wooden training swords. Curiously Harry waved his around, trying to get a feel to it. It was no sword of Gryffindor, definitely not - it was wood, for one, but also the blade was wider and longer, and the handle was long enough for both hands. Yet he was fairly certain it wasn't a two handed sword.

"We usually use lances, rather than swords - they are simply more efficient from the back of a chocobo to use," Adrak said, while whirling his sword almost absently in his grip. "But there will of course be times when we cannot fight whilst mounted, and in those times a lance might be too long."

"Right, right," Harry nodded. "Now what, sir?"

A whole lot of training, it turned out. Adrak spent exactly three minutes testing Harry with the sword before dubbing him a complete novice, and putting him with the other novices. Harry didn't mind - because he was learning how to _sword fight_, and how awesome was that? Not to mention about the fact that he was moving and fighting and learning and feeling it all.

The high of having a body to experience the stuff with still hadn't gone away and Harry was starting to think it was never going to. He was pretty okay with that.

After about hour or so of sword training, of swinging again and again and again at this angle and that angle, of learning how to grip a sword right and how to brace for the impact of swords meeting and what not, their trainer called the training over for the day. As the other novices sighed with relieve and dropped their swords, eagerly making their way to a near by table where someone had laid out some sandwiches and what not, Harry waved his sword some more. He wasn't hungry at all - and seriously, _sword fighting_.

"Harry. That chocobo of yours?" Adrak asked, as he finally left the sword in favour of trying to hold onto the pretence of being living breathing human. "She's tame, isn't she?"

Frowning, Harry glanced over to where some of the knights were trying to get a saddle onto the bird that had following him. The bird was ducking out of the way and flapping its wings threateningly at them, even while warbling excitedly like it was just a game. To it, it probably was. "I don't know, sir. It just started following me earlier today. She?" Harry asked.

"Yes, it's a female," Adrak nodded before giving him a considering look. "A wild chocobo started following you? What did you do - lure her with greens?"

"No I didn't, sir, I just…" Harry trailed away, not entirely sure how to explain. "It just sort of happened."

"Ah, well. Some of the chocobos of these plains are like that. They all used to be tame at one point in history - the chocobos here are descendants of ones that were left behind or which escaped - or laid eggs onto the plains - and which then became feral," Adrak murmured thoughtfully. "Some of them still grow easily fond of humans, if you're lucky enough to encounter one like that. I suppose we will have to see if she can be trained then," he mused and then glanced at Harry. "Do you think you could put a saddle on her?"

"I could try, sir, but no promises," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Right now it seems she just thinks it's a game."

"It's definitely better than it would be if she'd thought it was an attack," Adrak said, clapping his shoulder heavily. "It'll have to wait until tomorrow though. It's getting late. Now, how about you get something to eat and we'll see if we can fit you in the tents?"

"Sounds like a plan, Captain," Harry agreed.

He ended up not sleeping a wink that night and spent the entire night just lying in the bedroll assigned to him, staring at the roof of the tent while around him the other novices snored a way. It wasn't a bad experience at all - the sounds of people breathing and how the chocobos moved around in the pen, clawing the ground… there were words things to listen.

Like absolute _nothing_. That had gotten tiresome after few days - and he seriously didn't want to know how long he had been listening to it. Longer than any sane person had any business listening to nothing.

Sighing contently, Harry closed his eyes. He was pretty sure he would soon learn to love Spira. Such a hospitable place.

xx

After I got to writing FFVII, some review mentioned FFX as potential nextstep. I have some majorly mixed up feelings about FFX, it's one of those misspent-youth-things. But I got to admit, it's one of those guilty pleasures, reading the few good FFX fics and crossovers out there. Reason for this story, though, is simple. I freaking _love_ the chocobo knights.

This story ended up echoing with some of my previous ones, with Harry being all gung-ho about new world - and dead and all. I have more of this story, and I'm still writing it, but I got a bit stuck and hoped for some inspiration. If you like it and decide to read the full thing if/when it is posted, have a warning; It's going to be slash. Harry x Seymour. Because.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	36. Right of Conquest, HP with an OFC

Warnings; AU with OC main character.

**Right of Conquest**

Ethel Goyle wasn't much of a dark witch. Her magic wasn't that strong no matter what way you went about checking it, and most of Dark Curses, while easy to cast, took more power than she managed to muster - she couldn't have casted the three Unforgivables even if her life depended on it which wasn't that bad because she wasn't really sure if she would've wanted to cast them even if she had been able to. Most she was able to do were some house hold charms, really, easy and light on the power consumption and after years and years of never managing much better than wide spread dust removal charm, she didn't really mind.

Her parents had, however. She was however a pureblood witch of the highest order and in their opinion she should've been at the pinnacle of power since her birth - and instead, she was a near squib. Their attempts of changing the fact that her power wasn't all that high had been failures to say at best and even their final lifeline of trying to make her useful to the grater Goyle Family had failed. Ethel was, for reasons that no one could quite explain, completely infertile and as such a very poor marriage prospect. Add somewhat bad looks and, slight over weight that did not add to her chest much and the fact that she had somewhat bad attitude, and no one even considered accepting when her father tried and tried and tried to marry his youngest child off.

Which was how Ethel like it, frankly enough. The people her esteemed father had considered her hadn't been that good looking and even if there was money involved, Ethel didn't much care - it wasn't like their family had ever been rich, she was used to going without. So, she never had the slightly botched up infertility curse a mean girl in Ravenclaw had put on her removed, and instead went through life as Ethel Goyle, borderline squib and poor marriage candidate and that was it.

At least until her father happily offered her to the Dark Lord's servitude.

It was, beyond doubt, the strangest day of Ethel's life, that one. It had been mere couple of weeks since she had finished Hogwarts - and her father had had her school records sealed, seeing that she had failed all magic subjects except charms and she had scraped pass on that with a P, leaving only her high score on potions for her father to brag about. Her father had had her dressing up in her best robes - the ones that came with a corset that changed her body type quite a bit. And then, the next thing she had known, she was kneeling before the Dark Lord, who stared down to her with dispassionate eyes.

"What can you do, girl?" the Dark Lord had eventually asked, red eyes blazing. While Ethel's father had had a small panic attack, Ethel had looked up from the hems of the Dark Lord's robes she had been staring. It seemed like a serious question and despite all the attempts by her parents to change her, Ethel was nothing if not honest - and it was her life that was on the balance.

"I can cook, I can brew and I can clean up everything, and my sewing isn't bad either," she answered with determined nod. It wasn't much, but she could - hours and hours spent in Hogwarts kitchen hiding from mean girls had taught her thing or two about ovens and her brewing was top notch, even if so few things else were. And the trophies of Hogwarts had never shone so much than they did, the day she had gotten a detention.

"That is not very useful. A house elf can cook and clean," the dark lord sneered. "A spell can sew and I have enough many people who can brew."

Ethel nodded at that, it was true after all. She didn't say anything else, though - there was no use, all her abilities were laid out and she wasn't about to defend herself or her lack of use. She had enough of that in home and if the Dark Lord would do as her father so dearly wished and torture her out of sanity and life, then she's go because of her merits, not because of her flaws.

"Well. If you can prove your loyalty, Ethel Goyle, I can make use of you," the dark lord finally said, leaning back in his chair - his throne. "Can you prove my loyalty?"

"If you give me something to do, I'll be loyal enough, but that's about as much proof as I can give," Ethel said. "If you decide to mark me, my lordship, please mind my hands. I need them to work."

The dark, handsome man chuckled softly at her. "Are you a witch or are you a house elf?" he asked, darkly amused, still staring at her.

"I am just Ethel Goyle, my lordship," she answered. And if she had had her way, she would've gone to Hufflepuff, instead of Slytherin.

Whatever the dark lord saw in her that night, Ethel didn't know, but she got to keep her life. The Dark Mark wasn't branded to her arm like it was with all the rest of the death eaters, and instead it found home on her right cheek, completely ruining whatever meagre hints of good looks she had previously had. She didn't mind it, really, as without looking into a mirror she couldn't see it, but every time the other Death Eaters saw her, they would mock her to kingdom come. They called it the Cattle Mark and shoved her around when ever they encountered her. Thankfully, as she worked in the Dark Lord's kitchen and not out in the field, that wasn't very often.

It was, aside from the other death eaters and their behaviour, not a bad sort of life. She had six elves working under her - after she had gotten them out of the habit of fretfully wringing their hands and pulling their ears in outrage after she had commandeered the kitchen. She had work to do - and seeing that she was in charge of the mansion's upkeep, there was no place she couldn't go. And she had power to chase even the dark lord away momentarily, when she arrived with two elves in toll with buckets and rags and announced that yes, it was time to wash the meeting room.

"You are taking liberties, Miss Goyle," the Dark Lord hissed at her ferociously, but he skulked away every time. Probably because he didn't know enough cleaning charms to save his life, and the meeting room had the bad habit of getting very bloody at times.

"Alright. You two take the corpse, and I'll start soaking the floor," Ethel sighed, motioning at the elves who quickly vanished with the latest victim. After while, you got used to them really, and as Ethel up turned a bucket of soap water onto the floor in hopes of soaking the blood out of the wood, she had to wonder if there was such a thing as dark cleaning lady, because that was pretty much what she was.

There was plenty to do around the mansion, though, so she didn't usually had time for such notions. There were three floors and attic, that without counting in the basement. Twenty seven rooms which included two drawing rooms, a generous lounge area, enormous hall, two different libraries, the dark lord's office, the meeting room of course, the dining hall and the kitchens. Four bathrooms, plus four toilets. And then there were the cells, the torture chambers, potions storages, the wine cellar and such in the keep clean, lot to maintain in case something broke.

And Death Eaters, whilst most coming from elegant, pureblood families, weren't all the cleanliest of house guests. Some of them broke things in the mansion behind the dark lord's back just because they got the chance, knowing that the house elves would fix everything before the dark lord noticed. Their little attempts of being rebellious. And of course, there were people like Bellatrix, who often came in soaked in blood and making everything dirty. She probably did it out of spite, though.

This without counting the werewolves and vampires and hags and such. Vampires Ethel could handle - they seemed to have innate sense of cleanliness which she approved, but the werewolves of the sort of Fenrir Greyback and such, those were a different thing. He tended to punch his fists through walls when ever he got mad - which happened often.

They all tended to be especially difficult on her, when the Dark Lord invited them to dine. Ethel took great pleasure in cooking and being able to set the table just right - and most often than not, she had to clean up quarter of the floor from the table cloth and there was inexplicably two broken plates and a bent fork every time

"It's a messy bunch you lead, my lord," she sighed to herself, time and time again after cleaning up after her lord's house guests. She was getting used to it, though, and there was certainly a benefit in having elves to command. They could do magically things she couldn't, like repair broken plates and such.

"How does it feel to be less than a house elf, Ethel?" one of her former house mates asked during a tea party, having arrived at the arm of one of the young, recently initiated Death Eaters.

"I live in the most secure house in all ofBritain. How do you think I feel?" Ethel answered, before picking Fiona's empty glass and heading back to kitchens. That was one of the many perks in being the Dark Lord's cleaning lady. All the other death eaters were living under the constant fear of being discovered by Aurors and the like. Not Ethel, though, since she never had to leave the heavily warded mansion for anything. She couldn't have anyway, the Dark Lord had made certain of that when he had put the Mark where everyone could see it.

It worked just fine for Ethel, though.

That was, until the day the Dark Lord headed out on personal matter, and didn't come back.

x

Ethel waited. She cleaned the meeting room, and waited. She washed the floor of the front hall, and waited. She brushed the front yard, and waited. She cooked the usual amount of food, sending the elves to take it to the basement, and waited. She went through every cupboard in the kitchen, washing everything she encountered, and she waited. The halls got a thorough brushing, she dusted all the paintings, she wiped every book in the libraries, she even ventured into the Dark Lord's study and organised everything - something the lordship fiercely hated.

Nothing. It was just her, three prisoners in the dungeons and the six elves in the mansion, and not a soul more. The Dark Lord had failed to show up day after a day. Even the death eaters had stopped coming. Aside from Ethel busying herself around the mansion, the whole place was silent.

Finally, after a week or so, she sighed, resting her work worn hands at her hips. It was getting too long for the Dark Lord's personal matter to have just stretched. Something was going on. "Filli," she called to one of the younger elves. "Head out and get me a Daily Prophet, would you? One that's couple of days old will be fine," she said. With the blasted mail wards, they were getting no word from the outside.

"Yes, Madame Goyle," the young elf nodded, bobbing her a quick curtsy before popping away. After she had vanished, Ethel sighed and pulled her sleeves up. She might as well get started on the basement - it had been a while since she had give the place a good scrub.

"Hello, Gideon, Fabian," she greeted the two of the three prisoners they had at the mansion, as she lugged the water buckets down. The two red heads were playing what looked like a chess made from bits of dried bread. "How does it?"

"Mind dullingly boring, Madame," they answered, quickly standing up and rushing to the metal bars separating them from her. After nearly year's worth of staying there, they were looking a bit ragged - she wondered if she should take their robes and give them a wash again. "Hey, do you know what's happening? We haven't seen anyone in ages, just the elves."

"That's because there's been no one in for a week. The mansion's empty," Ethel said, dunking her broom into one of the buckets and then starting with the floor. It was starting to stink. "I send an elf to get the Prophet, see if the paper knows what's going on."

"No one's - a week? Why haven't you been down here - do you think the dark lord might be dead?" Gideon asked hopefully, leaning his elbows onto the horizontal bars. "That would be something, now wouldn't it? Maybe the war's over!"

"Yeah, that'd be brilliant," Fabian agreed with eager nod, leaning his cheek onto the bars. "I would love to go home. It's so boring here - though I gotta tell you, having no one coming around to curse you has been a bliss."

Ethel shrugged, frowning slightly. If the dark lord was dead and the war was over, she'd be in bit of a trouble. She had made a life for herself in the mansion, serving the Dark Lord. She had no life outside - and the moment she stepped out and where people would be able to see her, she'd be thrown in Azkaban for having the mark on her cheek. Absently she rubbed her cheek, wondering about it. She didn't much care for the notion of going to Azkaban - she wouldn't have gone there even as a cleaning lady.

"Hey, if the dark lord's dead, do you think you could let us out?" Gideon asked eagerly.

"Probably not," Ethel said, sighing and glancing at the bars. There was no door, no lock - those appeared only by magic. She couldn't do enough to do that, and all the prisoners in the mansion were made unable to do magic. "The elves might be able to, but I doubt it. Lordship gave them some strict rules about prisoners. They'll have a stroke if I even suggest it to them. "

"Bugger," Gideon frowned. "Maybe you could go out and get someone who could?"

"Don't be thick - the moment she's go out, they'd lock her up. Besides, if the dark lord isn't dead, she'd just be getting herself killed if she tried to help us, and then who'd get us some yummy muffins, hm?" Fabian asked, frowning as well.

"Yeah, we can't risk the muffins, definitely not," Gideon agreed, and the pair of them fell into a thoughtful silence.

"Let's wait and see what the Prophet will tell us," Ethel suggested. "In the mean while, I could cook you something better for tonight, seeing that there won't be anyone to tell me otherwise."

"Oh, oh, eggs and bacon for me, please? Pretty please?" Gideon asked hopefully. "With some toast if you have any?"

"I'll just be happy if it's something else then the sludge we've got to eat so far. No offence, Ethel, I know you tried to make it good," Fabian added. "And the muffins did help."

"Eggs and bacon with toast on the side it is," Ethel agreed and went about cleaning the floor as the red haired twins went into happy reverie about the food they would soon get to eat. She didn't share their simple bliss, and instead went back to wondering what would happen if the dark lord was dead. What would she do then?

"Good afternoon, Charlus," Ethel greeted the last prisoner, who had been in the mansion for longer than she had been cleaning it. The elderly wizard glanced down at her from the ceiling he had been staring and smiled at her.

"Hello, young Ethel," the man said, and slowly sat up, rubbing his neck. "Did I hear right, about the Dark Lord having not appeared here for a while?" he asked turning to face her.

"I haven't seen a glimpse of him or any of the other Death Eaters in a week," Ethel agreed, while brushing the floor and trying to dig out the dirt from between the rough stones. "I'll let you know what I find out, after the elf returns with the Prophet."

The elderly man nodded. "I'd appreciate that," he said and with a slight sound of discomfort moved to lean to the floor. "Any chance you could clean up a little on this side of the bars?" he asked, giving the corner where he was forced to relieve himself a slight frown. "The smell is starting to get to me, I'm afraid."

"Not much I can do, I'm afraid, but if you feel up to it, I can pass some cleaning supplies through the bars so you can take care of it yourself," Ethel said apologetically. "I'll see if I can have an elf to bring a bucket or something here for you, if you'd like."

"I'd like that very much, though obviously I would prefer a real bathroom. And I think I'll take you up on your offer of cleaning supplies," Charlus agreed. "And, if I could possibly get some eggs and bacon as well, I'd be forever grateful."

"Bucket and supplies for us too, please, Madame!" Fabion called from across the hall. "Two buckets, if you please!"

"I'll do what I can," Ethel promised. She also delivered her promise and supplied the prisoners with some meagre comforts now that there seemed to be no one around to tell her not to - she even slipped them some blankets and pillows after the men were finished cleaning their respective cells. She was preparing them the requested dishes, when Filli returned with arm load of newspapers.

"Madame Goyle!" the young elf gushed. "Filli is sorry for taking so long, but after Filli noticed some of the articles, Filli thought that Madame would like the news papers from the entire week, Madame! Filli scoured trash cans to get them all - Filli even got today's paper, she did!"

Ethel smiled, despite the urge to frown at the elf's filthy state. "You did good, Filli. Now go and wash yourself - and get a clean pillow case. I will not have my kitchen elf smelling like garbage."

The young elf eeped. "Yes Miss Madame Goyle Ma'am, right away!" she nodded rapidly, and after dunking the newspapers to the table, she rushed away. Ethel sighed after her, as did the older kitchen elf Dinky, shaking her head.

"Dinky apologises for Filli, Madame Goyle. She is being a excitable young elf again," the older elf said.

"It's okay, having some energy around here is never amiss," Ethel said. "You finish the food and send it down to the prisoners, and I'll check these out in the mean while," she decided and carried the newspapers out of her - previously very clean - kitchen. She didn't want to take them to the clean library or the clean lounge room either - or clean anyplace really - so she ended up carrying them to the porch where the breeze could take away the stench of rubbish from them.

"Let's see then," she murmured, and organised the papers by date, before taking the one for first of November.

_DARK LORD VANQUISHED BY A YEAR OLD BOY!_ proclaimed the headline in such a huge text, that they hadn't managed to fit anything else to the front page. Ethel stared it with shock for a moment, before quickly bundling all the papers up again, and hurrying to the basement, where she read it out loud to Gideon, Fabian and Charlus.

"… on thirty first of October, He Who Must Not Be Named attacked the idyllic home of James and Lily Potter in Godric's Hollow. The motives behind this attack remain unknown, but the result speaks volumes. While James and Lily Potter both perished in the attack, their fifteen month old son, Harry James Potter, survives as the first person in history to survive the Killing Curse," Ethel read. "It is unknown what sort of magic's saved the young potter, but in ensuing backslash of power, the Dark Lord was vanquished…"

"Seriously?" Gideon asked with wide eyes. "Hey, Ethel, let me see that, will you?"

"Poor James and Lily. I really liked them - James was always a laugh," Fabian sighed, and then leaned in to read as Ethel handed the paper to Gideon.

"Ethel," Charlus called anxiously from his cell. "Does the papers say what happened to Harry?"

"I'm sorry, Charlus. I haven't read that far ahead," Ethel answered, taking the rest of the papers and approaching the elder prisoner's cell. "I came here straight away. Here, it's all the papers from last week…"

In the ensuing hour, she and the three prisoners read through the papers, and learned not only about the Dark Lord's death and the collapse of the Potter home in Godric's Hollow, but also that Harry Potter had been given the title of Boy Who Lived thanks to his shocking survival. There had been a number of Death Eater arrests since then, and lot of the people Ethel had met in the mansion had gone to Azkaban.

"Sirius Black, a Death Eater?" Fabian asked with outrage. "Preposterous!"

"Well, he does come from a dark family," Gideon noted from his cell, though he sounded a bit uncertain.

"I've known that boy from when he was all spotty and not so pretty - and so have you, Gideon. Sirius is no Death Eater," his brother snapped. "He was ready to swear never to use magic when Dumbledore asked if he would ever consider using dark curses and such, remember? Tell me, Ethel, have you ever seen him here, in the mansion?"

Ethel shook her head. She was never let into the more important Death Eater meetings, but she never forgot a face after seeing it - and face as handsome as Sirius Black's she would've remembered. "I think I've seen Peter Pettigrew around, though," she said, pointing at the picture of the slightly podgy mousey haired wizard that Sirius Black had supposedly killed.

"Peter? Little whiny Peter?" Gideon asked with shock. "Really?"

Ethel nodded. "He kept giving me weird looks so I'm pretty sure I remember him right," she said.

"What I'm most worried about is this. _Despite a public acclaim over the matter of Harry Potter's guardianship, it has been decreed that he will be raised by muggle relatives from his mother's side_," Charlus read from one of the papers, scowling at the text. "A wizard who defeated a darklord as powerful as Voldemort, living with Muggles? Ridiculous."

"Harry Potter is your grand son, isn't he?" Ethel mused, giving the man a sympathetic look.

"Well, not as much grandson as a cousin trice removed, really. My father and young James's grand father were brothers." Charlus said, scowling. "I doubt the kid even knew I was alive, to be honest."

"You've been here for what, ten years now?" Fabian asked sympathetically. "Makes our year or so look like nothing in comparison."

"Fifteen years now, I think. It hasn't been a dance in a Fey meadow, I'll tell you that," the elder wizard grumbled and then smiled at Ethel. "It has gotten better with the addition of young Ethel, however."

"Thank you, Charlus," Ethel said, sighing. Cousins and brothers and Boys Who Lived aside… her lord was dead. The death eaters imprisoned or scattered. Her whole life was in ruins. What would she do now? Keep tending to an empty mansion until she died, caring for prisoners of a Lord who was now gone? She should do the right thing and go out, tell people where the mansion was so that they'd be able to help Gideon, Fabian and Charlus… except she couldn't. The place was Fidelied, after all, and only the Dark Lord himself had known it's exact location.

Sighing she rubbed her neck. And even if she had gone out, no one probably would've listened to her, not with the dark mark on her cheek.

"So, now what?" Gideon asked, after they were done reading the papers and learning what they could. "Can we leave?"

"The magic in these cells are still holding strong, which means they weren't linked to Voldemort's power but to the mansion itself. Only a skilled wizard could break us out. And Ethel, no offence my dear Madame, is not a very skilled witch," Fabian said slowly. "The house elves will rather die than to break their master's orders, even if their master is dead. And with the mansion under layers of wards plus a Fidelius… even if we somehow managed to send help, no one would be able to get here."

"This sucks," Gideon sighed.

"There is one thing we might be able to do, but it is a long shot," Charlus mused from his cell. He was still reading the paper about Harry Potter's placement with muggles. "It's pretty old magic and who knows if it even works, but there is a chance that Harry Potter could be brought here even without the secret keeper's permission. By Rights of Conquest, everything Voldemort owned now belongs to him, since Voldemort had no heirs and probably wrote no will. It's even more so thanks to the wards, since the ministry is incapable of claiming this place, and the Goblins are about equally unable to get in…"

"Wait, you mean that by Rights of Conquest, little baby Harry is now the next Dark Lord?" Gideon asked, sounding incredulous.

"I don't see how that makes any difference," Fabian asked. "Even if we brought him here, that wouldn't change the situation at all - only thing would change would be that there'd be a baby in the house and that's it."

"Well, if the Rights of Conquest work in this case, and Voldemort is as paranoid as I think he is and never told anyone the Secret of this mansion, then… the wards should also fall to Harry Potter's ownership. That includes the Secret of the Fidelius," Charlus answered. "It wouldn't make any difference now, but when the boy would grow up a little, he could free us. Especially since to defeat Voldemort when he's so young, he should have strong magic - strong enough to undo these cells, when he learns enough."

"But wouldn't that take years?" Fabian asked suspiciously.

"Probably. But aside from that, I suspect there is no other way," Charlus said.

"And the concept of brining your grand-cousin here instead of leaving him with muggles has nothing to do with this, hm?" Gideon asked sneakily.

"The Potters are a pureblood family, even if young James married a muggleborn. A boy with that much strength and that history - and reputation of having defeated a dark lord while still a baby - shouldn't be left in the muggle world," Charlus scoffed. "He will have every dark wizard from here to ether after him for this, if not because they want to know how he managed it, then to take him out, seeing him as competition. Not to mention about the Death Eaters."

Ethel eyed him and then glanced at the two redheads, and frowned. "So," she started slowly. "Harry Potter is, by Rights of Conquest, the new Dark Lord and the owner of this mansion?" she asked, just to be certain.

"If the rules apply in this case, and they should," Charlus agreed, nodding. "If they do, he should be able to be brought here and if he can be, then by coming here he will essentially be claiming his spoils. The Right of Conquest only works if it's claimed."

Ethel nodded slowly in answer and then took the paper Charlus was holding, which had a picture of young Harry Potter in it. "Diggy, Minty!" she called to the two garden elves, who appeared in pops beside her. She turned to them and showed them the paper. "By rights of Conquest this boy should be the new lord of this mansion - he defeated our previous lord," she said to them, pointing at the picture. "His name is Harry James Potter. He was taken by wrong people - so if you can, I need you to find him and bring him home."

The two weather worn elves stared at her with wide eyes before looking at the paper. "A young master?" Minty of them asked. "But… his lordship is dead?"

"It doesn't feel like his lordship is dead, no it doesn't," Diggy agreed, even while taking the paper to his slightly dirty hands. "His lordship felt weird to Diggy, though, always felt weird. In more than one places all the time." The elf frowned at the paper hard, like trying to read young Harry Potter's mind through the black and white picture. "Young master looks very young, but Right of Magic will always tell."

"Young master is young, but if he's our lord, then he's our lord." Minty agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Minty will find young master, and then Minty will know if Right of Magic makes him young lord."

"Diggy will go too, he will," the other elf agreed.

"Good," Ethel nodded. "Be careful, though."

"Yes, Madame Goyle, we will be taking care," the elves nodded, and then disappeared to do their task.

"That was a swift decision." Charlus noted.

"It's not right, there being no lord here," Ethel answered with a determined nod. The mansion was too big and magnificent to be left empty just like that. "If Harry Potter is the new lord, then he ought to be here. And once he's old enough, he ought to be deciding what to do with you."

"Hm," Charlus hummed, leaning back and eying her. "I must admit, I do prefer the notion of him being here, rather than in some Muggle's house, even if this is the mansion of Voldemort. However, how do you intend to raise him, young Ethel? He is fifteen months old. It all will fall onto your shoulders, his guardianship and guidance, as well as his education. Are you up to that?"

Ethel scoffed. She might not have experience with children, per say, but taking care of mansion full of Death Eaters had been, at times, like looking after a rowdy punch of kids. Not to mention about the Dark Lord himself. Besides, she had six elves at her disposal. Not to mention about two light wizards and one grey one in the dungeons. "Have you ever had children, Charlus?" she asked.

"A son, long time ago. He is gone now," the elderly wizard mused, frowning at her.

"There we have it then. If I do something wrong, you, being more experienced, can just tell me and we'll be done with it," Ethel nodded determinately. He wasn't the sort to start fretting about the future - she was creature of the now, and right now she was plenty confident that she could handle it. It wasn't like young Harry Potter would be throwing Cruciatus curses around at any case.

"But how will you raise him?" Charlus asked. "Will he be your new dark lord in name alone, or in spirit as well?"

"He'll be my lord. Whatever else he will be, will be up to him," Ethel said. It didn't matter to her if he'd become dark lord or light lord or lord of house elves or what. So as long as he'd be there and the lord of the mansion where she worked, she'd be fine with it.

"Sometimes, my dear, I do believe your disposition towards other people is even more terrifying than that of season dark witches," Charlus chuckled, but he looked strangely satisfied. "I have no doubt you will do the best of job possible. However, if I may suggest, please pay some attention to his magical studies when the time comes. He will need to know transfiguration and the spells to release and modify cell wards, in order to release us from here."

"Right. I'll figure something out, I'm sure," Ethel promised.

"So, we're going to have a little lord in the mansion?" Gideon asked from his cell. "Weird, but kind of sweet. How long do you think it will take before he's old enough to release us?"

"Depending on his intelligence, anything from seven to seventeen years," Charlus answered.

"That's a long while," Fabian mused a bit sullenly.

"True, but it is better than forever, in any case," the eldest of the three prisoners said, and turned to Ethel. "If and when the elves find and deliver our young Lord, could you kindly come and show him to me?" he asked. "Regardless of my other motivations… he is most likely the only relative carrying the family name that I have left."

"I will," Ethel nodded and pushed her sleeves up. "Now, though, I think I need to start preparing a room for young master." While heading up to the mansion proper and leaving the three prisoners to discuss the turn of events amongst themselves, she wondered if they had a crib of anything like that in the mansion.

She didn't shed a tear or mourn her previous lord. The Dark Lord Senior had been her master, and employer and had given her a place better than any other her father had imagined for her, and for that she was in a way grateful. The dark lord hadn't even tortured her that much, seeing that she had a job to constantly attend to. But in the same time, she could admit holding some lingering bitterness over some things - like the dark mark that, despite having started to fade a bit, was still plainly visible on her cheek. In the end, Dark Lord had been nothing more or less than duty to her. The new young lord would be the same, even if a different way.

"At least there won't be any Death Eaters around messing things up," she mused to herself. She would miss setting up the dinner and tea parties and making snacks for meetings and whatnot, but she wouldn't miss the cleaning up afterwards. And with three prisoners, herself and a new lord to feed, she mused she would have enough to do in any case.

It was no use wondering. She had a room to clean and set up and if there was no crib, then she had to fashion one somehow. Shaking her head, she set her thoughts aside, and got to work.

xx

I wrote this thing just to see how it would turn out if I ever decided to write a fic with OC dark witch as main character. It was surprisingly fun - I might even continue it.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and stuff


	37. Undemanding Mysteries, HP x SH cross

Warnings; Harry Potter and Sherlock Holmes (the book series) crossover. Rebirth fic, with some OOC characters.

**U****ndemanding mysteries**

It is with some vague sense of mingled relief and complete dread that I prepared myself to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It had not been easy two years before that, as the confirmation of my magic hadn't came until very late, and since I was six years of age or so most of my relatives were nearly convinced that I had, in fact, been born without any. Until that confirmation arrived in the form of the unexpected Hogwarts acceptance letter, it was strongly believed that I was, indeed, a complete squib.

The problem with that wasn't that my family was in any way biased towards squibs - we have seven living in the family, and they are just as well liked as any magical family members. The problem is that family squibs are put under slightly harder duress than the rest, as we… _they_ have to overcompensate for the lack of magic. It is with in our family motto even, a Longbottom Does His Part, and squibs were never excluded from that.

My Grandmother, Madame Augusta Longbottom, was especially ferocious supporter of the family motto. In hindsight of age and slightly better understanding I know that family history affected her there. Both my parents were respected Aurors, after all, and thus she expected more from me than I was perhaps capable of providing. She was especially firm in her ideals of making me much like my father and when the family fell under the belief that I lacked all magical powers of my forefathers, her belief did not loose any of it's strength - if nothing, it grew stronger. She just adjusted her ideas to non-magical ways only.

As such, I don't begrudge her for any of it. As she started what my family called the Muggle Immersion Project, I learned many things. Among the whole of my family, I can blend in the best in the muggle side of the society, thanks to the lessons and courses I had to take since I was fairly young. And in the camps she sent me to from since I was eight or so, I learned many things which, perhaps, aren't that useful within the magical society, but which I still find to be somewhat _neat_ talents to possess.

In the summer camp of the National Smallbore Rife Association I learned how to handle muggle weaponry. Of course, a young boy like me was only permitted the access to air-rifles and such and even that in only in the presence of a teacher, but it was nonetheless very educating. I also learned some small measure of fencing in another camp of similar nature, though I suppose that muggle guns fit my hands a little better, than swords.

My other obscure lesson into the art of being a muggle were similar - though of course in some cases my Grandmother's ideals of what I should know went a bit off the target as it were, and she had me learning horseback riding and orienteering and such, thinking I needed it for transportation. She, and most of my elder family, are completely unaware that most muggles move by cars, busses, trains and such other machinery these days.

My life wasn't entirely made of camps, of course not. There were weeks, sometimes month, before my grandfather found the next suitable camp to send me to. In the times in between, I enjoyed tidying up the garden and the green house that no one else in the house cared about. I also spent many enjoyable nights in the library, reading the anecdotes of my forefathers and -mothers. Great, great grandmother Sarah had been a healer assigned to the Auror Corps back in 1832, and she wrote the most thrilling journals among the lot - I enjoyed those especially and thought even back then that, should've I had the chance to choose, I would've liked to be a healer.

But on other times, I was on the camps where I couldn't bring anything magical, not even a journal, with me. I didn't mind, not even when the _incident_ occurred. It was, coincidentally, during a two month long spring camp, that the year that had been only very busy turned into a troublesome one. It was what muggles would call a boot camp for troubled children according to the brochure, but my Grandmother enrolled me into it so that I could learn to be diligent and to perform tasks manually, instead of magically. Not that not knowing wasn't the problem, but as in our family home chores and such tended to sort themselves out by magic, for a squib it would've been important lesson.

The boot camp in question had a decisively militant flavour to it, though, and while we made our beds and washed our clothes and suffered somewhat harsh punishments for putting toes out of line, we were rewarded with one of the most exciting things I know. If everyone had done well, we would get on every fourth day assigned to teams and then there would be a paintball gun battle. It was rather counter productive, seeing that the kids on that camp all tended to have behavioural problems, but it was a good team work exercise, if nothing else.

My teams strategy to win got very elaborate and eventually it ended up involving couple of us on the roof, working as snipers. I, being one of the best marksmen in the team, was voted to be one of the roof-dwellers. It was a foolish thing to do, but I didn't want to disappoint anyone so up I went. I came down rather quicker than I intended to, though.

I suspect the only reason I didn't bounce was the utterly moronic, panicked moment I had where the only thought I had was how the teachers would yell at me for breaking the gun - we had been drilled about that rather ferociously in the beginning, after all. The gun came out of the ordeal without a scratch. I, on other hand, broke my leg.

Of course, it was nothing that bad - in muggle terms perhaps, yes, it was open fracture and my bone had snapped from three points and nearly dislocated my kneecap entirely. But after I had been taken to a hospital my Grandmother immediately pulled me out, and after some time in St. Mungos where the bone was whole again, my kneecap where it belonged, and aside from some faint scarring everything was alright. The healers even said that after some time and month worth of daily doses of a weak Skele-Gro potions I would be right as rain.

In truth, I only found the whole thing fascinating. The pain was, of course, bad at times, but I had potions for that, so it was alright. I had never been in St. Mungos and witnessing how they healed my leg was captivating. I didn't even mind the cane, not really, or the bitter potions. It was all good for me - after all, I got to keep my leg and after some time it would be perfectly fine again. The reaction my family, especially my Grandmother, had to it was fairly bad though.

If there had ever been a point in time when the Longbottoms would've turned into anti-muggle doctrine, that would've been the time.

After I came to home, I was immediately commanded to a week's worth of bed rest by my grandmother, and then the rest of the spring was spend in near house arrest. I didn't mind - the leg needed rest and it ached hours on end after daily dose of the potion, but aside from that… it wasn't very pleasant.

The summer is the time of the Longbottom Family reunion and as horrible time as it was for me normally, it was made even worse that half of my distant relations came to the ancestral home, expecting to find me a near cripple - and thinking they did. The incident was the subject of heated discussion the whole summer, and my grandmother nearly swore never to let me near muggles again.

The worst thing about it all was how I was doted upon like I was completely infirm. I was given get-well-soon presents and pitying words of reassurance and I was gifted with no less than four canes of exquisite craftsmanship. My Aunt Hilda even suggested that she could hire a personal servant for me, to do fetching for me and such. And of course, when ever I got up to get something, it was instantly summoned for me.

The acceptance letter was my saviour and my doom, as it arrived and pulled the carpet from under my and my family's feet. The shock was understandable, and the following bafflement even more so - as now that I was a wizard and not a muggle, no one seemed to have any idea what to do with me. I had been raised to be a squib, after all, with talents that would possibly be of use for a squib, and yet I wasn't one.

The relief on everyone's faces after the thought sunk in was the worst thing about it, I suppose. No one had ever treated me badly, of course not, but it still seemed like I was suddenly several levels _better_ than before. More worthy. Wizards are biased towards magic like that.

The get well presents stopped coming after that - because after all, now that I was a wizard, there was no way I would limp for the rest of my life. Couple of the canes I had been given had been recollected by their previous owners, even, and while before my Grandmother had snapped at me for not using a cane at every turn, even the slightest trip to the loo, now she frowned at me for having to still lean onto the stick.

In the week before my entry to Hogwarts, things seemed to shift around me for slightly worse. My grandmother returned to her old way of thinking, handing my father's old wand to me with flourish and proclaiming that "You will make an Auror yet, Neville, you just wait." Most of the week was spent drilling magical ideals and concepts into my head, with definite weight on Defence Against the Dark Arts. I was also taught wizarding etiquette somewhat belatedly and other such things that I should've already learned, but which squib hadn't needed and thus hadn't been taught to me.

In the end, I was more bewildered and resigned than anything else when the morning of September the first came, and I fought that all my books and equipment had been bought already as well as packed and that I was ready to go - with myself having little say in what I would like to bring. I resigned myself to it, knowing how pointless it would've been to fight, and collected Trevor, a frog my uncle had given to me as congratulation present, and got ready.

If I had known what was waiting for me in that Hogwarts Express, I suspect I might've walked a little faster, a little more eagerly, through the barrier that day.

x

To say that I was not as well prepared for Hogwarts as my so called pure blood should've permitted me would have been more than a slight understatement. I had no idea what to look forward, even the Hogwarts Express itself was a near mystery to me. That was one of the things I enjoyed about the whole thing, though - and I have to admit, the way my grandmother whispered guidance to me, telling me that the Sorting Hat could be persuaded if it didn't want to send me to Gryffindor, was like rain cloud hanging over my head.

"Now then," she said, after we were on the side of the train and it was time for me to board. "Be strong and be brave, Neville. And look after that blasted toad of yours. I know you would've rather wanted a dog, but there is nothing wrong with a good toad. Now let me have a look at you."

I did, standing attention the way I had learned in the camp where I had gotten shot, and waited until she was done with her inspection, finished tugging at my vest and collar and nodding to herself. "Well then. Time for you to go. Send me a letter once you're sorted, I want to know if they've changed the Gryffindor common rooms much."

"Yes, grandmother," I answered and that was it as far as farewells went. I suppose I should've expressed my unease about her deciding before my sorting where I would go, but I was eleven and maybe a little too adjusted to doing as I was told, so I said nothing. Instead I collected my trunk, and made my way into the first empty compartment I found, where I set my trunk, my frog and myself down with a sigh. My leg ached something fierce - Grandmother hadn't allowed me to bring the cane, it turned out, telling me I shouldn't show weakness.

Not that I minded - the cane brought up some looks I didn't much care for, pity and sympathy and that type of resigned _what a shame_ look which was worst of all. I probably should've put a firmer foot down there. I didn't want to be a bad grandson, especially considering that I was the heir of the family, but at times…

I was saved from my own gloomy thoughts when the compartment door opened and a girl with bushy brown hair peaked in. She sighed, and pulled back a little, saying, "Sorry," under her breath as she did.

"Are you looking for a compartment to sit in?" I asked. She looked rather haggard, and if she needed a place to sit… "There's enough space here, if you don't mind the company. I'm not waiting for anyone."

She blinked, and looked in again. "Are you sure?" she asked cautiously, and when I nodded she smiled, and then turned to drag her trunk in. Ignoring the stinging of my leg, I moved to help her. We soon had her trunk on the floor beside mine, and after closing the door behind her, the girl smiled at me.

"Thanks," she said. "I've been through two cars now, and every where's full - and the first time I saw one with just one boy in it, the boy glared horribly at me, it was absolutely awful. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way," she said, thrusting her hand out before blinking. "Um, do wizards shake hands? I've read two etiquette books, but I'm not entirely sure - I'm first witch in the family, you see, and there's so much for me to learn, I have tried my best but there's just so much and -"

"Yes, we shake hands," I laughed, interrupting her, and then took her hand. "Neville Longbottom."

She smiled again and we sat down, her opposite me and me trying to unnoticeably stretch the leg a bit. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually this chatty, but it's so excited and you're the first nice wizard my age I've met - there was a group I met in the Diagon Alley, they were just horrible," she said, and then frowned. "I probably shouldn't be speaking ill, maybe they were trying to be nice on their own way. Oh, I really need to learn more about wizarding customs…"

"They're not that different from muggle ones. Just a little old fashioned and more posh at times, that's all," I assured her, amused. I had never met a muggleborn before that, but I could imagine how excited she had to be. I would've been too, without the personal problems predating my admittance to Hogwarts.

"Are you from a wizard family?" Hermione asked eagerly. "What it is like, to have magic in the family? Me and my parents, we're all baffled about it all. It's really quite new to us. I bet you've been already taught all sort of things. Oh, I wish I had too… I would be better prepared."

"I can imagine. And yeah, I'm from wizard family. Pureblood family, I guess you could call it," I answered and then shrugged. "For a long while I was thought to be a squib, though, so I wasn't taught much. And besides, not even pureblood families prepare their kids that much, not really. You can only learn magic after you turn eleven, it's as much true to purebloods as it is for muggleborns."

She gave me a strangely exhilarated look. "Squib?" she asked, fascinated.

It ended up being a long conversation about the distinction between muggles and wizards and everything that fell in between. Hermione was absolutely fascinated by the concept that there were the opposite for muggleborns like her. I indulged her and told her all I could, and I have to admit, it was the best conversation had had in months. Back in my ancestral home all the talks tended to circle around certain subjects when I was involved, and those had gotten very tiresome. Talking about something, _anything_ else was beyond welcome.

Our conversation soon drifted away from muggles and wizards to old customs of pureblood families and the like until we came to Hogwarts. "Do you know what house you're going to be in? I've been reading about it, and I think I would like to be a Gryffindor," Hermione said in her rapid-fire fashion, as if there wasn't enough air in a breath to get all her information through. "I hear Dumbledore was in Gryffindor, which makes sense, of course, seeing that he defeated Grindelwald. Ravewclaw wouldn't be too bad, I suppose…"

My smile might've been somewhat strained at that. My family wanted me to go to Gryffindor, of course, and I suppose it would've been nice. But in the end, I wasn't so sure about it. Going somewhere, into a house most of all, because that was people thought you should do…

Perhaps after the last summer, I wasn't so keen on doing as my family ordered anymore.

It was about half past noon, when our conversation about the merits of the houses was interrupted. A elderly witch peaked in and smiled at us, asking; "Anything from the trolley, my dears? I have all sort of snacks here if you're hungry."

Hermione looked distressed at that, rummaging through the pockets of her black robe. "I didn't think to bring any wizard money. I got sandwiches, an apple and some yogurt with me though," she murmured and sighed, giving a look at the trolley. "I have never seen wizarding sweets. I wonder if they're different."

I checked my pockets and found couple of galleons my Grandmother had given me for this exact purpose. "Let's find out then, shall we?" I asked, and turned to the trolley lady, buying some cauldron cakes and a pastry and then some sweets to sample. She handed it all out with a cheery smile and a thank you, before moving on to knock the next compartment's door.

It was only after eating some and turning to fetch some thing from my trunk to feed to Trevor, that I realised that my frog was gone. "Not again," I sighed, and begun rummaging my things in the faint hope of finding the creature.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione asked with a worried frown.

"My frog, Trevor. It's always getting away from me," I sighed, half tempted to leave it at that - to leave Trevor at that. A frog was not my first choice of a pet - a dog would've been much better companion - and I have to admit that I only brought the creature with me because it was a gift and my grandmother didn't let me leave it at the mansion.

"Well then, nothing to it," Hermione said, pulling her sleeves up. "Let's go looking. He probably got out when the trolley lady opened the door - there is no way he's gotten too far."

"There's no need -" I started, but she hushed me with a wave of her hand.

"Nonsense," she said. "It's no trouble at all. Come on, you head to the left and I head to the right, ask everyone we encounter - we're bound to find it in no time."

I sighed as she marched away, and pushed myself up to my feet. Nothing to it then, I decided and headed to the left, leaning to the rail when ever I could do so without being noticed. When I knocked at the doors of the other compartments, my enquiries after Trevor were half hearted at best, and with each negative response I felt a little relieved.

My leg was being a literal pain by the time I met with Hermione at the entrance of our compartment. "No sight of a toad, and no one's seen him," she said, frowning a little, but not with exasperation the look was odd, thoughtful, and the words were distracted as if her mind was somewhere else. "How about you?"

"None at all," I answered, eying her. "Is something the matter, Hermione? You look put off."

"Hm? Oh, it's nothing. I met this boy, he was very rude when I told him I wanted to be in Gryffindor," she said, frowning a little darker, but the thoughtful look stayed. She shook her head and then looked at me. "He asked me what species your toad is. It was a bit strange."

"I bet. Ignore him - there's always going to be some rude people, after all, and so as long they stick to words they can't do much harm," I answered, patting her shoulder awkwardly. She was probably in for more rude people than she yet expected, being a muggleborn.

"Yes, you're right," Hermione said and then straightened her back. "Let's keep on looking. I go the other way this time and you other - maybe one of us will notice something the other missed."

"Why not," I answered with a smile, even though all I wanted to do was sit down for a moment. I could walk, of course, I could even manage it without limping much, but each moment it was getting worse. I wasn't used to being on my feet this much.

As she headed off again, I turned to the way she had came from and kept at the enquiries, taking a few breaks here and there to rest my leg. Some of the answers I got when I asked for Trevor were a bit exasperated - apparently Hermione had been as talkative with them as she was with me. I didn't mind, the sooner I got this over with the sooner I could go back to my compartment and sit down.

I knocked yet another compartment and then slid the door open. "Sorry," I said to the two boys inside, honestly apologetic. "Have either of your two seen a frog?"

"A frog?" the black haired boy who was stretched over the bench, taking more space than he necessarily needed to, asked, eying me over his book. The other boy, red haired and freckled and by the looks of it confused about something, glanced up as well while the black haired boy hummed. "Miss Granger said it was a toad. Which one is it?"

I smiled awkwardly. Everyone thought Trevor was a toad because wizards usually had toads - even my grandmother thought so. "Trevor a frog. A magical bullfrog."

The boy frowned at me and then snapped his book shut. "Come, sit down, Mr. Longbottom" he said, standing up and offering me the bench. "Rest your leg. I'll go and get your frog for you," he added. "Which car are you from? How many times was the door opened?"

"Seventh and just once when the witch with the trolley came to sell - wait, what? How do you know my -?" I asked with some confusion.

"Sit down, your leg is bad enough as it is," the boy said, and pushed me down to sit. "So, your frog will be in below the sink in the toilet of the seventh car. Excellent. I will be right back," he added to himself and then bustled away without another word.

"What the…" I murmured and then looked at the red haired boy. "What was that?"

The boy let out a sigh, folding his arms and slumping back against his seat. "Harry Potter," he said, and then waved his hand at the look I gave him. "Him, not me; I'm Ron Weasley."

"Neville Longbottom, how do you do," I answered and he nodded. For a moment I didn't think anything really, bit too surprised and confused I suppose. It was not every day you met a hero, not that I had ever much paid attention to the stories about the Boy Who Lived. Then I started to wonder. I hadn't limped when I had peaked into the compartment, I hadn't been moving at all. How had Potter known about my leg? And what had he said, my frog was in below the sink - how could he possibly know that?

I glanced at the door and then back at Weasley. "So, um. What was that?"

"No idea what so ever," the redhead answered, shaking his head. "I've just met him, but he's been a bit weird the whole time. Looked at me and told me my whole life story - he even guessed how many brothers I had and that I had a sister and told me exactly what the grounds a around my home are like. It was weird."

"Oh. Okay then," I murmured. We waited in awkward silence for a while, me rubbing my leg in hope of getting the pain to subside, and Weasley just staring out of the window, looking like he didn't know if he was supposed to be irritated or not. It was something of a relief when Potter returned - it released the odd tension in the air, if nothing else.

"Trevor?" I asked with surprise, as I saw the glass bowl potter was carrying, with Trevor sitting inside it, half covered in water. "How did you, where did you -"

"From under the sink of the seventh car's toilet, like I told you," Potter answered, handing the bowl to me.

"How did you know he'd be there?" I asked, confused. "Did you use magic?"

"No, Mr. Longbottom, no magic at all," the black haired boy scoffed at that and made a dismissive motion with his hand. "It was simple enough to deduce. Mrs. Higgins has been working in this train for too long not to have noticed a frog leaping out of a compartment as she sold her wares. Aside from the doors, there is only one way out of a compartment, which is the ventilation duct here," he nudged the compartment wall just below the window with his foot. "And as you see, it is easy enough to open, even for an animal."

"But that doesn't explain anything," I denied.

"Of course it does. The ventilation ducts lead straight to the bathrooms. A bull frog is a aquatic creature, and these compartments are fairly dry - obviously it would be drawn to the cooler, moister air coming from the ventilation duct," the boy answered. "I suspect you didn't keep him properly. I would suggest getting an aquarium or terrarium for him. He shouldn't be running off after that."

I blinked with surprise. "Oh," he said, and as the black haired boy nodded with satisfaction and sat beside him, he coughed to clear his throat. "That was…" Interesting, kind of amazing, more than a bit confusing. "What about my name?" I asked, unable to help myself

Potter gave me a look and shook his head. "When a heir of an important family breaks his leg, it tends to make the news, I'm afraid," he answered. "On top of that, you have fine, rich clothing even if somewhat worn and you wear your family's signet ring in a chain around your neck. Of course I can't tell the symbol, but I can see the shape through your shirt and there are only so many families with signet rings these days, and the tones of your hair and eyes exclude most of them."

"… huh," I murmured. For a moment I considered asking him how he knew about my leg - just because of how fascinating Potter's deductions sounded - but then decided against it. "Well," I said instead. "Thanks," I said, lifting Trevor in his glass container. "For this. Where did you get the bowl?

"I had one of the elder students transfigure it," Potter answered, claiming the seat again and stretching his legs out. "You should ask someone if they could make you a temporary cane. I suspect there will be some walking ahead of us before the day is over."

I frowned at that and turned to leave. "Maybe I will," I said, but mostly to myself only, and then headed back to see if I could find Hermione.

We met just in front of our compartment, and as she saw Trevor with me, she smiled brightly at me, and we moved inside to sit. "Where ever did you find it? I feel like I've been looking everywhere!"

"I didn't. Harry Potter found him," I answered, setting Trevor in his bowl down. He looked cosier there than he ever had in my hands, and I supposed Potter was right about that too. Trevor, unlike the toads most Wizards kept, wasn't exactly a lap animal.

As I reached for the feed for my creature, I missed the way Hermione stiffened at the sound of Potter's name. "That horrible boy," she said, throwing her head back a little. "Are you sure he wasn't the one who took your toad?"

"Pretty sure," I answered and gave her a strange look. Then I realised, "It was him, wasn't it, the one who was rude to you?"

Hermione sniffed with irritation. "I only told him and that other boy, didn't catch his name, that I was looking forward to Hogwarts and that I should be happy if I was sorted to Gryffindor. He told me I wouldn't be."

I frowned at that. Potter had been a bit straight forward but he hadn't came across as someone who took pleasure in insulting people. "What did he say, exactly?" I asked thoughtfully.

She didn't answer immediately, only looked down at her knees with a frown. Then she sighed and looked away, a little sullen. "He said that Gryffindor is house of the brave and bold, and that I would be happier where I belonged. And that, if I went to Gryffindor, I would most likely be bullied for it."

I considered that for a moment, leaning back and stretching out my leg a little. "Okay," I said, and looked at her. "He's probably right. You would do better in Ravenclaw."

She frowned and glanced up at me. I shrugged. In the hours we had sat together, Hermione had told me she had not only read all our course books, but memorised them, as well as some twenty or so others - and that she had spent days looking for a magical library in vain. It didn't sound like Gryffindor behaviour to me - no, it as Ravenclaw through and through.

"Of course I don't know what Gryffindor is alike, exactly. But the way it sounds, I don't know," I shrugged my shoulders. "It sounds somehow very… superficial. Bravery and boldness, and all that."

Hermione eyed me thoughtfully and then leaned back, folding her arms. "You never said where you wanted to go," she said. "I assumed Gryffindor, but… you never said. Where do you want to go? Ravenclaw too?"

I shifted uneasily. "My… family expects to see me in Gryffindor," I said evasively.

"And you?" Hermione asked perceptively, narrowing her eyes.

I shrugged, and looked away. "I'll let the Sorting Hat decide, I think," I finally said. "It's there for a reason, anyway. And I'd rather be with people I fit in with, rather than somewhere else, trying to be something I'm probably not." I coughed and scratched the back of my head somewhat sheepishly. "We're going to stay at Hogwarts for seven years, so whichever house we go… well, I'd like to be comfortable, for those seven years."

"I suppose that is true," Hermione answered. We spent a moment in comfortable silence, until finally she roused from her thoughts and stood up. "I think I will take a walk along the train," she said. "I asked around before, but I think I want to ask again, about the houses and such. It is an important decision and I want to make the right one."

"Too right," I nodded. I had no urge to go anywhere, not with my leg, so I only smiled. "To on, I'll keep a watch over your trunk."

"Thank you," she said, nodded and then headed out with her head held high and look of determination in her eyes. She was, I already knew then, a very strong willed young witch - and I suppose she would've done well enough in Gryffindor, with that strength of will. It wasn't really my place to say, so I was clad she went about, asking around. Even if that, gathering information and so forth, was again rather Ravenclawish behaviour.

I spent the rest of the trip mostly in my own company, but comfortably so. I took out a course book for the year to follow and spent my time reading up on charms. Already then, the vague thought of becoming a healer lingered in the back of my mind, and I knew that to that end, I needed to know certain subjects better than others, charms being one of them.

When the Hogwarts Express at last pulled to the Hogsmeade station at the end of our voyage, it had already gotten dark. Thankfully the chance to rest had eased my leg somewhat, and as the prefects started calling us to step down to the platform, I did so without many reservation. The night was beautiful, starlit. Truly a night of magic.

"There you are," Hermione said, appearing at my side. "I thought I'd lose you in this crowd. What do you suppose we're meant to do? The elder students are going over there…"

As I turned to look, a call went out for, "Firs' years! First' years o'er here!" A giant of a man stood among the sea of heads and black robes, waving his massive arms. As others of our age mage towards him, I and Hermione shared a look and did the same, until we were among the crowd surrounding the man.

The man, all the while calling for more first years, led us down from the platform and along a narrow path towards the shoreline. It was then that I - and others of my age - saw Hogwarts for the first time, as we came to the shore of the Black Lake. It was magnificent, perched upon a high cliff like some sort of magnificent bird of prey, except so much more massive and awe striking. It glowed in the dark distance, its hundreds of windows candle lit, every spark of light reflected on the mirror-like surface of the lake. All the stories my family had told suddenly had a new depth, new gleam to them, as I stared upon that magnificent, magical castle.

"No more than four on a boat!" the giant man called, and we noticed the boats that waited for us in the shore line. As most of our year mates made forward, I glanced around. Our party of two wasn't big enough to claim a boat by itself, so we needed to share - and if I had to share, I wished the company to be at least somewhat pleasant.

"Here, this way," I said, after noticing Potter and Weasley, getting into one of the boats.

"Must we?" Hermione asked with a deep sigh, but I ignored her in favour of approaching the boat.

"Mind if we join you?" I asked, and as Weasley looked up Potter, who was considering our future class mates, nodded his head almost absently. Nodding in return I took the silent welcome and stepped onto the boat, turning top help Hermione over the edge as well before sitting down. She was stiff and as she nodded in greeting to the two other boys, there was edge of hostility there, but she remained quiet.

"So," Weasley started after a moment of quiet, while the giant man helped some others of our year level into the boats and we waited for the journey over the lake to start. "What do you reckon the sorting will be like?" he directed the words to me, but it was Hermione who answered.

"The sorting is performed by the Sorting Hat. It used to belong to Godric Gryffindor, you know, the hat, he was the one who spelled sentience into it and made it capable of sorting," she said. "It looks into your mind, you see. You wear it upon your head and the hat will know your personality and tell where you belong. I read about it in the _Hogwarts; a History_."

"A _hat_? My brothers said we had to fight a troll!" Weasley said.

"That was very mean of them," the only female in our boat huffed. "No first year would have any means of fighting a troll in any case. They are at smallest at least seven feet tall and their hide is really thick - you need several wizards to do any sort of impact. To think that a first year -"

"A troll would be much preferable to a sentient borderline inanimate object that looks into your mind," Potter answered with a slight scoff. "A mind should be the business of it's owner alone."

"You got secrets you don't want to share, then?" I asked before Hermione, who had drawn a sharp breath, could say anything cutting. Potter glanced at me with singularly unimpressed look and I raised my eyebrows in return.

"Magical mind arts have the deplorable habit of messing one's head - and I take great pride in the neatness of mine," he answered and looked away. "Ah, finally," he added, as the boat below us jerked forward. It wasn't just our boat, however, but all of them that moved past the shoreline and forward, after the initial jerk sliding forward softly and silently, only leaving faintest ripples onto the water's surface.

"How long do you suppose this will take?" Weasley asked, after the initial wonder faded.

"Thirty seven minutes, granted that nothing disturbs the pace," Potter answered. He tugged slightly at the collar of his robes, and lifted the hood up a bit, to cover the back of his neck.

"And you know that how, exactly?" Hermione asked sharply.

"It is simple matter of calculating the distance and velocity - also there is the matter of the time of the starting feast was plainly stated in the acceptance letters," Potter said, glancing at her and blinking. "Whatever is the matter, Miss Granger?" he asked then, somewhat flatly.

"You are!" Hermione answered heatedly, but under her breath to avoid alarming the other boats. I reached out to touch her shoulder, wishing to quiet her down because a flimsy little boat was by no means a place to start a dispute - little bit of rocking would be all that was needed to send us all into the water. She however only tugged her shoulder out of my grasp, and pressed on. "You had no right telling me what you did, back at the train - and you could've been nicer about it if you absolutely had to say it!"

"Nicer?" the black haired boy asked, surprised. "And how would you have liked me to sugar-coat the fact?" he snorted and turned away. "To soften the simple truth is as bad as to simply lie about it, Miss Granger."

"Uuh, you're simply impossible!" she snapped back and then folded her arms and looked away with a huff. I glanced between her and Potter who was completely ignoring her, and wondered if I was supposed to feel sorry for her and angry at Potter. Possibly - she was the first acquaintance I had yet made, and maybe would be my friend, but for some reason… I understood the reasoning behind Potter's words.

"Right," Weasley murmured, looking between the two and then at me. "So. What house do you think you will go?"

I sighed, shook my head and then smiled. "I'll let the hat decide."

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, save for the sounds coming from the other boats where the other future students were whispering and exchanging opinions from midst of exclaiming at this or that which they saw in the distance. I looked around as well and I have to admit, the view was beautiful. The stars above us and reflected on the water, and the proud mountains at each side of the lake, surrounding and guarding us like gods of old. At one point I even thought I might have seen a flicker of white in the forest at the shore, fancying it to be one of the unicorns that were said to live in Hogwarts forests.

It is not a view I will ever forget.

We eventually arrived to the other shore, after more than half an hour just like Potter had predicted. There we left our boats behind and then followed the giant of a man through shadowy staircases up to the grounds and then towards the castle itself. Hogwarts was even more massive up close, enormous and nearly impending but for the warm glow coming from inside. The giant man knocked, and then let us inside as the doors opened, and into the warmth of the castle proper.

Hogwarts was no less impressive from inside as it was from the outside, and I must admit that I did let out exclamations of amazement as we moved forward, just as did the others. I nearly missed it completely when the giant of a man delivered us to the tall, dark haired witch waiting for us, so enthralled I was with the castle itself. I had grown up in a large house hold, of course, but the entrance hall was easily higher than the Longbottom Ancestral Manor.

We were led into a chamber much smaller than the entrance hall, where the dark haired with introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. "The start of the term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into Houses. The sorting is a very important ceremony…" she told us, after introducing herself, explaining us the bones of the sorting ceremony, as well as the four different houses. "The sorting Ceremony will begin in few minutes in front of the rest of rest school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

With that and promise to return shortly, she headed out, leaving us to our own devices. While the others went about getting their clothing and hair into order, I shifted my weight back and forth between my good and bad leg, wishing I had something to lean on at least. The coolness of the boat ride hadn't done me many favours.

"Here," a familiar voice said, and I found Potter standing next to me. His voice was low, and despite the fact of how closely we all were standing, I knew I was the only one whop heard his instructions, "lean onto my shoulder and pretend to straighten the hem of your robes. Use the chance to stretch your leg."

I frowned, but did as he instructed, clasping him by the shoulder and leaning down. It took effort to muffle the grunt as a tensed muscle eased and sharp pain spiked, and then faded away. "Why?" I asked under my breath, as I rolled my ankle unnoticeably, trying to ease the tension further.

"Why not?" he answered, and looked away. He said nothing further, and neither did I, instead I took the opportunity and eased my leg as much as I could.

It felt much better, by the time alarm went through the crowd of students, at the arrival of the school ghosts. I nearly fell over as someone bumped into me in fright, but Potter grasped me by the elbow and pulled me up, to see the transparent figures of spectres, swooping down upon us from the ceiling and walls. It was easy to see that most of my year mates had never seen a ghost, but the way they reacted, but potter didn't flinch in the slightest, even when one of them swooped right over us.

"New students!" one of them, a slightly stout man in preacher's robes, exclaimed at the sight of us. "About to be sorted, I suppose. Hope to see you in Hufflepuff - my old house, you know!"

The ghosts didn't get the chance to say more than that, as it was then that Professor McGonagall returned. "Move along now," she said sharply. "The sorting ceremony is about to start."

The Great Hall is, deservingly, the subject of many tales, descriptions, art works and fond memories of nearly all British magicians. It is grand and welcoming with it's glowing light, produced by the hundreds of candles floating just below the enchanted ceiling. Even though it felt like we were being walked to our death by humiliation, top stand before the whole school while everyone stared, there was a sense of welcome in that magnificent hall. It was like it was there where the Hogwarts castle itself was closest to it's children.

The sorting hat, as my Grandmother had said, was an old, ragged thing, but no less quick witted or mouthed for it's age, as it burst into a song once the silence fell. It was, I suspect, a witty way of introducing new students to it's powers and to the houses, as it detailed itself and it's purpose in the song, but the lyrics of it escape me - just as I suppose they escape everyone who tries to recall the song of their own sorting. Too nervous were we to even hear most of it, really.

Once the song was done and the hat had gotten it's deserved applause, the sorting itself begun. One by one professor McGonagall called our names, one by one we were sorted. I tried to memorise the names and the houses everyone went into, knowing that it would be a smidge more polite to know their names in case I ended up in the same house.

My attention to the sorting peaked slightly, as the professor moved onto the seventh letter and Hermione was called forward. The hat sat upon her head for a long moment, nearly two minutes, before Hermione sighed and it called out, "RAVENCLAW" in the same booming voice it had called every other name. For the first time during the sorting, I clapped my hands, smiling encouragingly at her as she rushed to join her new house mates.

"Good girl," Potter murmured at my side. "She'll do much better there."

"If you know everything, tell me, where will you go?" Weasley asked, but it was rather distracted as we listened to Hudson Daniel get sorted into Ravenclaw as well.

Potter only smiled. "It wouldn't be surprise if I told you, now would it?" he asked.

I glanced at him thoughtfully, for a moment wondering, but then they were sorting Kell Violet and my letter was the next in line. True enough, the call for Longbottom Neville was sounded next, and I moved forward. After I had sat down - and gratefully too - Professor McGonagall set the hat onto my head, and somewhere in between my years I could feel a distant sort of murmuring.

"You're a steady one, make no mistake," the voice murmured, a little clearer now. "You would do well in Gryffindor, much like your family thinks, but I feel a reluctance there."

I closed my eyes. It was, I think, the first time I intentionally felt the urge to go deliberately against the wishes of my family. All my life I had, but in that moment, ahead of me loomed the future my grandmother saw, with me following my father's footsteps as an Auror. And maybe that would've been fine, maybe it would've been grand, but… but. I am still not sure exactly what made me shy away from that thought. Some lingering strand of child's defiance.

"Put me where ever you will," I then thought, pushing aside my own selfishness. If Gryffindor was it then there I would go, even if it would be so obedient of me. "Where ever I will fit," I then amended.

"Where ever I will and where ever you'll fit, well, thankfully for you those are one and the same, for you are the perfect stuff for HUFFLEPUFF!" the last word echoed outside my head, and I knew that everyone had heard it, not just me. As professor McGonagall took the hat, I felt a small measure of guilt mingled with relief, before making my way towards the table that was now _my house_'s table.

I was welcomed with smiles and claps on my back while the rest of the school applauded politely. The boy on my right introduced himself as Justin while the boy across me was called Herbert, he was from year above me. Then the sorting resumed, and I turned my attention back to the front of the hall.

It took good dozen people until a familiar name was called out and while everyone broke out to whispers, my house mates included, Harry Potter moved forward with a sort of understated elegance. The way he sat down on the three legged stool made the stool seem like the most comfortable armchair imaginable, though there was no way he could wear the hat with any sort of grace, as it slipped past his eyes easily enough. The silence that followed was absolute, and so was Harry Potter's stillness as he remained there, no doubt conversing his possibilities with the hat.

"Gryffindor, don't you think?" Asked a boy near by.

"It would be something if he was a Hufflepuff," another said. "Harry Potter in Hufflepuff, that would be really… something."

I ignored them and instead craned my head. I knew he would be neither Gryffindor nor Hufflepuff - not with the mannerism and the intelligence I perceived.

I wasn't disappointed. After the silence had gotten nearly grating, the hat's rip-like mouth finally opened and it burst out, "SLYTHERIN!" which first sent everyone into flurry of gasps and then back into silence, as Harry potter rouse, set down the hat, and strode over to the Slytherin table, where he was immediately made space.

The rest of the sorting went by in a sort of haze, though I don't know if I only imagined it. For me, that word meant very little, as I had already adopted a fairly defeatist attitude towards Hogwarts as far as the house placements went. But for everyone, it was different - unlike me, who had escaped majority of that old prejudice on count of having been thought a squib for so long, majority of them believed the rumours. For them, all dark wizards came from Slytherin. And to see Harry Potter, a national hero, in that house of bad reputation…

After the last students were sorted and Weasley Ronald went to Gryffindor and Zabini Blaise went to Slytherin, the sorting was at it's end. After few singularly strange words of welcome from the Headmaster Dumbledore, the feast begun. Between one blink and another the tables were filled with more food than I had ever seen in a single glance - and the Longbottom Christmas parties were often times fairly over-done.

As everyone begun chatting, some still glancing over their shoulders towards the Slytherin table where Harry Potter sat, I turned to the food. The exercise had left me starving, and I attacked the food gratefully, eagerly reaching for the chicken legs. As I ate, I exchanged introductions with the others near by, learning that Justin was a half blood and that Susan was looking forward to charms and that Hannah sincerely hoped that we had good beds since she was knackered.

After eating my fill and drifting out of the subject matter - which, between the girls, had moved onto fashion and whether or not the modification of the Hogwarts uniforms was allowed, I let my gaze drift. I took in the banners and the candles, realised that my robes were no adorning the black and yellow of a Hufflepuff as were the robes of everyone else in the table. Eventually mi gaze made it's way to the other tables, to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor and then, finally, to Slytherin.

Harry Potter sat among the students of green and silver, a faraway look on his face. Those around him were either ignoring him now or giving him irritated looks. Somehow that didn't surprise me at all, and as I reached for a piece of a pastry, I wondered if he had eaten. He didn't look like he ate enough.

Like feeling my gaze, he glanced towards me. I kept my ground, not allowing myself to be intimidated even though the look on his face bordered on a glare, and after a moment he offered a crooked smile and a nod. I nodded back and then turned to look away again, wondering if Slytherin and Hufflepuff had any classes together.

xx

I started this more out of curiosity than anything else, but I doubt I will continue it. It's a fun idea, sure, and I have some excellent ideas for Sherlock!Harry's background, as well as his future deductions about teachers, students, his side job as consultant for the Aurors and for the Department of Mysteries, etc etc...

But I don't really feel like starting another multi chapter story that I will probably get bored with after 2, 3 chapters. I don't like doing that sort re-dos any more anyway - the first year has been rewritten so many times that there's very little new there. So, this is all there's going to be of this, methinks. I might write more Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter crossovers though - I have urge to have Harry time travel back to the Victorian era.

Edit: I will withdraw my earlier statement of there being no multichapter story, for the ideas overtook me and I am now writing the second chapter.

My apologies for possible grammar errors, etc.


	38. Undemanding Mysteries continued

Warnings; Undemanding Mysteries continued. Harry Potter and Sherlock Holmes (the book series) crossover. Rebirth fic, with some OOC characters.

**Undemanding Mysteries  
****Chapter one  
Journey of deduction**

It is with some vague sense of mingled relief and complete dread that I prepared myself to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It had not been easy two years before that, as the confirmation of my magic hadn't came until very late, and since I was six years of age or so most of my relatives were nearly convinced that I had, in fact, been born without any. Until that confirmation arrived in the form of the unexpected Hogwarts acceptance letter, it was strongly believed that I was, indeed, a complete squib.

The problem with that wasn't that my family was in any way biased towards squibs - we have seven living in the family, and they are just as well liked as any magical family members. The problem is that family squibs are put under slightly harder duress than the rest, as we… _they_ have to overcompensate for the lack of magic. It is with in our family motto even, a Longbottom Does His Part, and squibs were never excluded from that.

My Grandmother, Madame Augusta Longbottom, was especially ferocious supporter of the family motto. In hindsight of age and slightly better understanding I know that family history affected her there. Both my parents were respected Aurors, after all, and thus she expected more from me than I was perhaps capable of providing. She was especially firm in her ideals of making me much like my father and when the family fell under the belief that I lacked all magical powers of my forefathers, her belief did not loose any of it's strength - if nothing, it grew stronger. She just adjusted her ideas to non-magical ways only.

As such, I don't begrudge her for any of it. As she started what my family called the Muggle Immersion Project, I learned many things. Among the whole of my family, I can blend in the best in the muggle side of the society, thanks to the lessons and courses I had to take since I was fairly young. And in the camps she sent me to from since I was eight or so, I learned many things which, perhaps, aren't that useful within the magical society, but which I still find to be somewhat _neat_ talents to possess.

In the summer camp of the National Smallbore Rife Association I learned how to handle muggle weaponry. Of course, a young boy like me was only permitted the access to air-rifles and such and even that in only in the presence of a teacher, but it was nonetheless very educating. I also learned some small measure of fencing in another camp of similar nature, though I suppose that muggle guns fit my hands a little better, than swords.

My other obscure lesson into the art of being a muggle were similar - though of course in some cases my Grandmother's ideals of what I should know went a bit off the target as it were, and she had me learning horseback riding and orienteering and such, thinking I needed it for transportation. She, and most of my elder family, are completely unaware that most muggles move by cars, busses, trains and such other machinery these days.

My life wasn't entirely made of camps, of course not. There were weeks, sometimes month, before my grandfather found the next suitable camp to send me to. In the times in between, I enjoyed tidying up the garden and the green house that no one else in the house cared about. I also spent many enjoyable nights in the library, reading the anecdotes of my forefathers and -mothers. Great, great grandmother Sarah had been a healer assigned to the Auror Corps back in 1832, and she wrote the most thrilling journals among the lot - I enjoyed those especially and thought even back then that, should've I had the chance to choose, I would've liked to be a healer.

But on other times, I was on the camps where I couldn't bring anything magical, not even a journal, with me. I didn't mind, not even when the _incident_ occurred. It was, coincidentally, during a two month long spring camp, that the year that had been only very busy turned into a troublesome one. It was what muggles would call a boot camp for troubled children according to the brochure, but my Grandmother enrolled me into it so that I could learn to be diligent and to perform tasks manually, instead of magically. Not that not knowing wasn't the problem, but as in our family home chores and such tended to sort themselves out by magic, for a squib it would've been important lesson.

The boot camp in question had a decisively militant flavour to it, though, and while we made our beds and washed our clothes and suffered somewhat harsh punishments for putting toes out of line, we were rewarded with one of the most exciting things I know. If everyone had done well, we would get on every fourth day assigned to teams and then there would be a paintball gun battle. It was rather counter productive, seeing that the kids on that camp all tended to have behavioural problems, but it was a good team work exercise, if nothing else.

My teams strategy to win got very elaborate and eventually it ended up involving couple of us on the roof, working as snipers. I, being one of the best marksmen in the team, was voted to be one of the roof-dwellers. It was a foolish thing to do, but I didn't want to disappoint anyone so up I went. I came down rather quicker than I intended to, though.

I suspect the only reason I didn't bounce was the utterly moronic, panicked moment I had where the only thought I had was how the teachers would yell at me for breaking the gun - we had been drilled about that rather ferociously in the beginning, after all. The gun came out of the ordeal without a scratch. I, on other hand, broke my leg.

Of course, it was nothing that bad - in muggle terms perhaps, yes, it was open fracture and my bone had snapped from three points and nearly dislocated my kneecap entirely. But after I had been taken to a hospital my Grandmother immediately pulled me out, and after some time in St. Mungos where the bone was whole again, my kneecap where it belonged, and aside from some faint scarring everything was alright. The healers even said that after some time and month worth of daily doses of a weak Skele-Gro potions I would be right as rain.

In truth, I only found the whole thing fascinating. The pain was, of course, bad at times, but I had potions for that, so it was alright. I had never been in St. Mungos and witnessing how they healed my leg was captivating. I didn't even mind the cane, not really, or the bitter potions. It was all good for me - after all, I got to keep my leg and after some time it would be perfectly fine again. The reaction my family, especially my Grandmother, had to it was fairly bad though.

If there had ever been a point in time when the Longbottoms would've turned into anti-muggle doctrine, that would've been the time.

After I came to home, I was immediately commanded to a week's worth of bed rest by my grandmother, and then the rest of the spring was spend in near house arrest. I didn't mind - the leg needed rest and it ached hours on end after daily dose of the potion, but aside from that… it wasn't very pleasant.

The summer is the time of the Longbottom Family reunion and as horrible time as it was for me normally, it was made even worse that half of my distant relations came to the ancestral home, expecting to find me a near cripple - and thinking they did. The incident was the subject of heated discussion the whole summer, and my grandmother nearly swore never to let me near muggles again.

The worst thing about it all was how I was doted upon like I was completely infirm. I was given get-well-soon presents and pitying words of reassurance and I was gifted with no less than four canes of exquisite craftsmanship. My Aunt Hilda even suggested that she could hire a personal servant for me, to do fetching for me and such. And of course, when ever I got up to get something, it was instantly summoned for me.

The acceptance letter was my saviour and my doom, as it arrived and pulled the carpet from under my and my family's feet. The shock was understandable, and the following bafflement even more so - as now that I was a wizard and not a muggle, no one seemed to have any idea what to do with me. I had been raised to be a squib, after all, with talents that would possibly be of use for a squib, and yet I wasn't one.

The relief on everyone's faces after the thought sunk in was the worst thing about it, I suppose. No one had ever treated me badly, of course not, but it still seemed like I was suddenly several levels _better_ than before. More worthy. Wizards are biased towards magic like that.

The get well presents stopped coming after that - because after all, now that I was a wizard, there was no way I would limp for the rest of my life. Couple of the canes I had been given had been recollected by their previous owners, even, and while before my Grandmother had snapped at me for not using a cane at every turn, even the slightest trip to the loo, now she frowned at me for having to still lean onto the stick.

In the week before my entry to Hogwarts, things seemed to shift around me for slightly worse. My grandmother returned to her old way of thinking, handing my father's old wand to me with flourish and proclaiming that "You will make an Auror yet, Neville, you just wait." Most of the week was spent drilling magical ideals and concepts into my head, with definite weight on Defence Against the Dark Arts. I was also taught wizarding etiquette somewhat belatedly and other such things that I should've already learned, but which squib hadn't needed and thus hadn't been taught to me.

In the end, I was more bewildered and resigned than anything else when the morning of September the first came, and I fought that all my books and equipment had been bought already as well as packed and that I was ready to go - with myself having little say in what I would like to bring. I resigned myself to it, knowing how pointless it would've been to fight, and collected Trevor, a frog my uncle had given to me as congratulation present, and got ready.

If I had known what was waiting for me in that Hogwarts Express, I suspect I might've walked a little faster, a little more eagerly, through the barrier that day.

x

To say that I was not as well prepared for Hogwarts as my so called pure blood should've permitted me would have been more than a slight understatement. I had no idea what to look forward, even the Hogwarts Express itself was a near mystery to me. That was one of the things I enjoyed about the whole thing, though - and I have to admit, the way my grandmother whispered guidance to me, telling me that the Sorting Hat could be persuaded if it didn't want to send me to Gryffindor, was like rain cloud hanging over my head.

"Now then," she said, after we were on the side of the train and it was time for me to board. "Be strong and be brave, Neville. And look after that blasted toad of yours. I know you would've rather wanted a dog, but there is nothing wrong with a good toad. Now let me have a look at you."

I did, standing attention the way I had learned in the camp where I had gotten shot, and waited until she was done with her inspection, finished tugging at my vest and collar and nodding to herself. "Well then. Time for you to go. Send me a letter once you're sorted, I want to know if they've changed the Gryffindor common rooms much."

"Yes, grandmother," I answered and that was it as far as farewells went. I suppose I should've expressed my unease about her deciding before my sorting where I would go, but I was eleven and maybe a little too adjusted to doing as I was told, so I said nothing. Instead I collected my trunk, and made my way into the first empty compartment I found, where I set my trunk, my frog and myself down with a sigh. My leg ached something fierce - Grandmother hadn't allowed me to bring the cane, it turned out, telling me I shouldn't show weakness.

Not that I minded - the cane brought up some looks I didn't much care for, pity and sympathy and that type of resigned _what a shame_ look which was worst of all. I probably should've put a firmer foot down there. I didn't want to be a bad grandson, especially considering that I was the heir of the family, but at times…

I was saved from my own gloomy thoughts when the compartment door opened and a girl with bushy brown hair peaked in. She sighed, and pulled back a little, saying, "Sorry," under her breath as she did.

"Are you looking for a compartment to sit in?" I asked. She looked rather haggard, and if she needed a place to sit… "There's enough space here, if you don't mind the company. I'm not waiting for anyone."

She blinked, and looked in again. "Are you sure?" she asked cautiously, and when I nodded she smiled, and then turned to drag her trunk in. Ignoring the stinging of my leg, I moved to help her. We soon had her trunk on the floor beside mine, and after closing the door behind her, the girl smiled at me.

"Thanks," she said. "I've been through two cars now, and every where's full - and the first time I saw one with just one boy in it, the boy glared horribly at me, it was absolutely awful. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way," she said, thrusting her hand out before blinking. "Um, do wizards shake hands? I've read two etiquette books, but I'm not entirely sure - I'm first witch in the family, you see, and there's so much for me to learn, I have tried my best but there's just so much and -"

"Yes, we shake hands," I laughed, interrupting her, and then took her hand. "Neville Longbottom."

She smiled again and we sat down, her opposite me and me trying to unnoticeably stretch the leg a bit. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually this chatty, but it's so excited and you're the first nice wizard my age I've met - there was a group I met in the Diagon Alley, they were just horrible," she said, and then frowned. "I probably shouldn't be speaking ill, maybe they were trying to be nice on their own way. Oh, I really need to learn more about wizarding customs…"

"They're not that different from muggle ones. Just a little old fashioned and more posh at times, that's all," I assured her, amused. I had never met a muggleborn before that, but I could imagine how excited she had to be. I would've been too, without the personal problems predating my admittance to Hogwarts.

"Are you from a wizard family?" Hermione asked eagerly. "What it is like, to have magic in the family? Me and my parents, we're all baffled about it all. It's really quite new to us. I bet you've been already taught all sort of things. Oh, I wish I had too… I would be better prepared."

"I can imagine. And yeah, I'm from wizard family. Pureblood family, I guess you could call it," I answered and then shrugged. "For a long while I was thought to be a squib, though, so I wasn't taught much. And besides, not even pureblood families prepare their kids that much, not really. You can only learn magic after you turn eleven, it's as much true to purebloods as it is for muggleborns."

She gave me a strangely exhilarated look. "Squib?" she asked, fascinated.

It ended up being a long conversation about the distinction between muggles and wizards and everything that fell in between. Hermione was absolutely fascinated by the concept that there were the opposite for muggleborns like her. I indulged her and told her all I could, and I have to admit, it was the best conversation had had in months. Back in my ancestral home all the talks tended to circle around certain subjects when I was involved, and those had gotten very tiresome. Talking about something, _anything_ else was beyond welcome.

Our conversation soon drifted away from muggles and wizards to old customs of pureblood families and the like until we came to Hogwarts. "Do you know what house you're going to be in? I've been reading about it, and I think I would like to be a Gryffindor," Hermione said in her rapid-fire fashion, as if there wasn't enough air in a breath to get all her information through. "I hear Dumbledore was in Gryffindor, which makes sense, of course, seeing that he defeated Grindelwald. Ravewclaw wouldn't be too bad, I suppose…"

My smile might've been somewhat strained at that. My family wanted me to go to Gryffindor, of course, and I suppose it would've been nice. But in the end, I wasn't so sure about it. Going somewhere, into a house most of all, because that was people thought you should do…

Perhaps after the last summer, I wasn't so keen on doing as my family ordered anymore.

It was about half past noon, when our conversation about the merits of the houses was interrupted. A elderly witch peaked in and smiled at us, asking; "Anything from the trolley, my dears? I have all sort of snacks here if you're hungry."

Hermione looked distressed at that, rummaging through the pockets of her black robe. "I didn't think to bring any wizard money. I got sandwiches, an apple and some yogurt with me though," she murmured and sighed, giving a look at the trolley. "I have never seen wizarding sweets. I wonder if they're different."

I checked my pockets and found couple of galleons my Grandmother had given me for this exact purpose. "Let's find out then, shall we?" I asked, and turned to the trolley lady, buying some cauldron cakes and a pastry and then some sweets to sample. She handed it all out with a cheery smile and a thank you, before moving on to knock the next compartment's door.

It was only after eating some and turning to fetch some thing from my trunk to feed to Trevor, that I realised that my frog was gone. "Not again," I sighed, and begun rummaging my things in the faint hope of finding the creature.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione asked with a worried frown.

"My frog, Trevor. It's always getting away from me," I sighed, half tempted to leave it at that - to leave Trevor at that. A frog was not my first choice of a pet - a dog would've been much better companion - and I have to admit that I only brought the creature with me because it was a gift and my grandmother didn't let me leave it at the mansion.

"Well then, nothing to it," Hermione said, pulling her sleeves up. "Let's go looking. He probably got out when the trolley lady opened the door - there is no way he's gotten too far."

"There's no need -" I started, but she hushed me with a wave of her hand.

"Nonsense," she said. "It's no trouble at all. Come on, you head to the left and I head to the right, ask everyone we encounter - we're bound to find it in no time."

I sighed as she marched away, and pushed myself up to my feet. Nothing to it then, I decided and headed to the left, leaning to the rail when ever I could do so without being noticed. When I knocked at the doors of the other compartments, my enquiries after Trevor were half hearted at best, and with each negative response I felt a little relieved.

My leg was being a literal pain by the time I met with Hermione at the entrance of our compartment. "No sight of a toad, and no one's seen him," she said, frowning a little, but not with exasperation the look was odd, thoughtful, and the words were distracted as if her mind was somewhere else. "How about you?"

"None at all," I answered, eying her. "Is something the matter, Hermione? You look put off."

"Hm? Oh, it's nothing. I met this boy, he was very rude when I told him I wanted to be in Gryffindor," she said, frowning a little darker, but the thoughtful look stayed. She shook her head and then looked at him. "He asked me what species your toad is. It was a bit strange."

"I bet. Ignore him - there's always going to be some rude people, after all, and so as long they stick to words they can't do much harm," I answered, patting her shoulder awkwardly. She was probably in for more rude people than she yet expected, being a muggleborn.

"Yes, you're right," Hermione said and then straightened her back. "Let's keep on looking. I go the other way this time and you other - maybe one of us will notice something the other missed."

"Why not," I answered with a smile, even though all I wanted to do was sit down for a moment. I could walk, of course, I could even manage it without limping much, but each moment it was getting worse. I wasn't used to being on my feet this much.

As she headed off again, I turned to the way she had came from and kept at the enquiries, taking a few breaks here and there to rest my leg. Some of the answers I got when I asked for Trevor were a bit exasperated - apparently Hermione had been as talkative with them as she was with me. I didn't mind, the sooner I got this over with the sooner I could go back to my compartment and sit down.

I knocked yet another compartment and then slid the door open. "Sorry," I said to the two boys inside, honestly apologetic. "Have either of your two seen a frog?"

"A frog?" the black haired boy who was stretched over the bench, taking more space than he necessarily needed to, asked, eying me over his book. The other boy, red haired and freckled and by the looks of it confused about something, glanced up as well while the black haired boy hummed. "Miss Granger said it was a toad. Which one is it?"

I smiled awkwardly. Everyone thought Trevor was a toad because wizards usually had toads - even my grandmother thought so. "Trevor a frog. A magical bullfrog."

The boy frowned at me and then snapped his book shut. "Come, sit down, Mr. Longbottom" he said, standing up and offering me the bench. "Rest your leg. I'll go and get your frog for you," he added. "Which car are you from? How many times was the door opened?"

"Seventh and just once when the witch with the trolley came to sell - wait, what? How do you know my -?" I asked with some confusion.

"Sit down, your leg is bad enough as it is," the boy said, and pushed me down to sit. "So, your frog will be in below the sink in the toilet of the seventh car. Excellent. I will be right back," he added to himself and then bustled away without another word.

"What the…" I murmured and then looked at the red haired boy. "What was that?"

The boy let out a sigh, folding his arms and slumping back against his seat. "Harry Potter," he said, and then waved his hand at the look I gave him. "Him, not me; I'm Ron Weasley."

"Neville Longbottom, how do you do," I answered and he nodded. For a moment I didn't think anything really, bit too surprised and confused I suppose. It was not every day you met a hero, not that I had ever much paid attention to the stories about the Boy Who Lived. Then I started to wonder. I hadn't limped when I had peaked into the compartment, I hadn't been moving at all. How had Potter known about my leg? And what had he said, my frog was in below the sink - how could he possibly know that?

I glanced at the door and then back at Weasley. "So, um. What was that?"

"No idea what so ever," the redhead answered, shaking his head. "I've just met him, but he's been a bit weird the whole time. Looked at me and told me my whole life story - he even guessed how many brothers I had and that I had a sister and told me exactly what the grounds a around my home are like. It was weird."

"Oh. Okay then," I murmured. We waited in awkward silence for a while, me rubbing my leg in hope of getting the pain to subside, and Weasley just staring out of the window, looking like he didn't know if he was supposed to be irritated or not. It was something of a relief when Potter returned - it released the odd tension in the air, if nothing else.

"Trevor?" I asked with surprise, as I saw the glass bowl potter was carrying, with Trevor sitting inside it, half covered in water. "How did you, where did you -"

"From under the sink of the seventh car's toilet, like I told you," Potter answered, handing the bowl to me.

"How did you know he'd be there?" I asked, confused. "Did you use magic?"

"No, Mr. Longbottom, no magic at all," the black haired boy scoffed at that and made a dismissive motion with his hand. "It was simple enough to deduce. Mrs. Higgins has been working in this train for too long not to have noticed a frog leaping out of a compartment as she sold her wares. Aside from the doors, there is only one way out of a compartment, which is the ventilation duct here," he nudged the compartment wall just below the window with his foot. "And as you see, it is easy enough to open, even for an animal."

"But that doesn't explain anything," I denied.

"Of course it does. The ventilation ducts lead straight to the bathrooms. A bull frog is a aquatic creature, and these compartments are fairly dry - obviously it would be drawn to the cooler, moister air coming from the ventilation duct," the boy answered. "I suspect you didn't keep him properly. I would suggest getting an aquarium or terrarium for him. He shouldn't be running off after that."

I blinked with surprise. "Oh," he said, and as the black haired boy nodded with satisfaction and sat beside him, he coughed to clear his throat. "That was…" Interesting, kind of amazing, more than a bit confusing. "What about my name?" I asked, unable to help myself

Potter gave me a look and shook his head. "When a heir of an important family breaks his leg, it tends to make the news, I'm afraid," he answered. "On top of that, you have fine, rich clothing even if somewhat worn and you wear your family's signet ring in a chain around your neck. Of course I can't tell the symbol, but I can see the shape through your shirt and there are only so many families with signet rings these days, and the tones of your hair and eyes exclude most of them."

"… huh," I murmured. For a moment I considered asking him how he knew about my leg - just because of how fascinating Potter's deductions sounded - but then decided against it. "Well," I said instead. "Thanks," I said, lifting Trevor in his glass container. "For this. Where did you get the bowl?

"I had one of the elder students transfigure it," Potter answered, claiming the seat again and stretching his legs out. "You should ask someone if they could make you a temporary cane. I suspect there will be some walking ahead of us before the day is over."

I frowned at that and turned to leave. "Maybe I will," I said, but mostly to myself only, and then headed back to see if I could find Hermione.

We met just in front of our compartment, and as she saw Trevor with me, she smiled brightly at me, and we moved inside to sit. "Where ever did you find it? I feel like I've been looking everywhere!"

"I didn't. Harry Potter found him," I answered, setting Trevor in his bowl down. He looked cosier there than he ever had in my hands, and I supposed Potter was right about that too. Trevor, unlike the toads most Wizards kept, wasn't exactly a lap animal.

As I reached for the feed for my creature, I missed the way Hermione stiffened at the sound of Potter's name. "That horrible boy," she said, throwing her head back a little. "Are you sure he wasn't the one who took your toad?"

"Pretty sure," I answered and gave her a strange look. Then I realised, "It was him, wasn't it, the one who was rude to you?"

Hermione sniffed with irritation. "I only told him and that other boy, didn't catch his name, that I was looking forward to Hogwarts and that I should be happy if I was sorted to Gryffindor. He told me I wouldn't be."

I frowned at that. Potter had been a bit straight forward but he hadn't came across as someone who took pleasure in insulting people. "What did he say, exactly?" I asked thoughtfully.

She didn't answer immediately, only looked down at her knees with a frown. Then she sighed and looked away, a little sullen. "He said that Gryffindor is house of the brave and bold, and that I would be happier where I belonged. And that, if I went to Gryffindor, I would most likely be bullied for it."

I considered that for a moment, leaning back and stretching out my leg a little. "Okay," I said, and looked at her. "He's probably right. You would do better in Ravenclaw."

She frowned and glanced up at me. I shrugged. In the hours we had sat together, Hermione had told me she had not only read all our course books, but memorised them, as well as some twenty or so others - and that she had spent days looking for a magical library in vain. It didn't sound like Gryffindor behaviour to me - no, it as Ravenclaw through and through.

"Of course I don't know what Gryffindor is alike, exactly. But the way it sounds, I don't know," I shrugged my shoulders. "It sounds somehow very… superficial. Bravery and boldness, and all that."

Hermione eyed me thoughtfully and then leaned back, folding her arms. "You never said where you wanted to go," she said. "I assumed Gryffindor, but… you never said. Where do you want to go? Ravenclaw too?"

I shifted uneasily. "My… family expects to see me in Gryffindor," I said evasively.

"And you?" Hermione asked perceptively, narrowing her eyes.

I shrugged, and looked away. "I'll let the Sorting Hat decide, I think," I finally said. "It's there for a reason, anyway. And I'd rather be with people I fit in with, rather than somewhere else, trying to be something I'm probably not." I coughed and scratched the back of my head somewhat sheepishly. "We're going to stay at Hogwarts for seven years, so whichever house we go… well, I'd like to be comfortable, for those seven years."

"I suppose that is true," Hermione answered. We spent a moment in comfortable silence, until finally she roused from her thoughts and stood up. "I think I will take a walk along the train," she said. "I asked around before, but I think I want to ask again, about the houses and such. It is an important decision and I want to make the right one."

"Too right," I nodded. I had no urge to go anywhere, not with my leg, so I only smiled. "To on, I'll keep a watch over your trunk."

"Thank you," she said, nodded and then headed out with her head held high and look of determination in her eyes. She was, I already knew then, a very strong willed young witch - and I suppose she would've done well enough in Gryffindor, with that strength of will. It wasn't really my place to say, so I was clad she went about, asking around. Even if that, gathering information and so forth, was again rather Ravenclawish behaviour.

I spent the rest of the trip mostly in my own company, but comfortably so. I took out a course book for the year to follow and spent my time reading up on charms. Already then, the vague thought of becoming a healer lingered in the back of my mind, and I knew that to that end, I needed to know certain subjects better than others, charms being one of them.

When the Hogwarts Express at last pulled to the Hogsmeade station at the end of our voyage, it had already gotten dark. Thankfully the chance to rest had eased my leg somewhat, and as the prefects started calling us to step down to the platform, I did so without many reservation. The night was beautiful, starlit. Truly a night of magic.

"There you are," Hermione said, appearing at my side. "I thought I'd lose you in this crowd. What do you suppose we're meant to do? The elder students are going over there…"

As I turned to look, a call went out for, "Firs' years! First' years o'er here!" A giant of a man stood among the sea of heads and black robes, waving his massive arms. As others of our age mage towards him, I and Hermione shared a look and did the same, until we were among the crowd surrounding the man.

The man, all the while calling for more first years, led us down from the platform and along a narrow path towards the shoreline. It was then that I - and others of my age - saw Hogwarts for the first time, as we came to the shore of the Black Lake. It was magnificent, perched upon a high cliff like some sort of magnificent bird of prey, except so much more massive and awe striking. It glowed in the dark distance, its hundreds of windows candle lit, every spark of light reflected on the mirror-like surface of the lake. All the stories my family had told suddenly had a new depth, new gleam to them, as I stared upon that magnificent, magical castle.

"No more than four on a boat!" the giant man called, and we noticed the boats that waited for us in the shore line. As most of our year mates made forward, I glanced around. Our party of two wasn't big enough to claim a boat by itself, so we needed to share - and if I had to share, I wished the company to be at least somewhat pleasant.

"Here, this way," I said, after noticing Potter and Weasley, getting into one of the boats.

"Must we?" Hermione asked with a deep sigh, but I ignored her in favour of approaching the boat.

"Mind if we join you?" I asked, and as Weasley looked up Potter, who was considering our future class mates, nodded his head almost absently. Nodding in return I took the silent welcome and stepped onto the boat, turning top help Hermione over the edge as well before sitting down. She was stiff and as she nodded in greeting to the two other boys, there was edge of hostility there, but she remained quiet.

"So," Weasley started after a moment of quiet, while the giant man helped some others of our year level into the boats and we waited for the journey over the lake to start. "What do you reckon the sorting will be like?" he directed the words to me, but it was Hermione who answered.

"The sorting is performed by the Sorting Hat. It used to belong to Godric Gryffindor, you know, the hat, he was the one who spelled sentience into it and made it capable of sorting," she said. "It looks into your mind, you see. You wear it upon your head and the hat will know your personality and tell where you belong. I read about it in the _Hogwarts; a History_."

"A _hat_? My brothers said we had to fight a troll!" Weasley said.

"That was very mean of them," the only female in our boat huffed. "No first year would have any means of fighting a troll in any case. They are at smallest at least seven feet tall and their hide is really thick - you need several wizards to do any sort of impact. To think that a first year -"

"A troll would be much preferable to a sentient borderline inanimate object that looks into your mind," Potter answered with a slight scoff. "A mind should be the business of it's owner alone."

"You got secrets you don't want to share, then?" I asked before Hermione, who had drawn a sharp breath, could say anything cutting. Potter glanced at me with singularly unimpressed look and I raised my eyebrows in return.

"Magical mind arts have the deplorable habit of messing one's head - and I take great pride in the neatness of mine," he answered and looked away. "Ah, finally," he added, as the boat below us jerked forward. It wasn't just our boat, however, but all of them that moved past the shoreline and forward, after the initial jerk sliding forward softly and silently, only leaving faintest ripples onto the water's surface.

"How long do you suppose this will take?" Weasley asked, after the initial wonder faded.

"Thirty seven minutes, granted that nothing disturbs the pace," Potter answered. He tugged slightly at the collar of his robes, and lifted the hood up a bit, to cover the back of his neck.

"And you know that how, exactly?" Hermione asked sharply.

"It is simple matter of calculating the distance and velocity - also there is the matter of the time of the starting feast was plainly stated in the acceptance letters," Potter said, glancing at her and blinking. "Whatever is the matter, Miss Granger?" he asked then, somewhat flatly.

"You are!" Hermione answered heatedly, but under her breath to avoid alarming the other boats. I reached out to touch her shoulder, wishing to quiet her down because a flimsy little boat was by no means a place to start a dispute - little bit of rocking would be all that was needed to send us all into the water. She however only tugged her shoulder out of my grasp, and pressed on. "You had no right telling me what you did, back at the train - and you could've been nicer about it if you absolutely had to say it!"

"Nicer?" the black haired boy asked, surprised. "And how would you have liked me to sugar-coat the fact?" he snorted and turned away. "To soften the simple truth is as bad as to simply lie about it, Miss Granger.

"Uuh, you're simply impossible!" she snapped back and then folded her arms and looked away with a huff. I glanced between her and Potter who was completely ignoring her, and wondered if I was supposed to feel sorry for her and angry at Potter. Possibly - she was the first acquaintance I had yet made, and maybe would be my friend, but for some reason… I understood the reasoning behind Potter's words.

"Right," Weasley murmured, looking between the two and then at me. "So. What house do you think you will go?"

I sighed, shook my head and then smiled. "I'll let the hat decide."

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, save for the sounds coming from the other boats where the other future students were whispering and exchanging opinions from midst of exclaiming at this or that which they saw in the distance. I looked around as well and I have to admit, the view was beautiful. The stars above us and reflected on the water, and the proud mountains at each side of the lake, surrounding and guarding us like gods of old. At one point I even thought I might have seen a flicker of white in the forest at the shore, fancying it to be one of the unicorns that were said to live in Hogwarts forests.

It is not a view I will ever forget.

We eventually arrived to the other shore, after more than half an hour just like Potter had predicted. There we left our boats behind and then followed the giant of a man through shadowy staircases up to the grounds and then towards the castle itself. Hogwarts was even more massive up close, enormous and nearly impending but for the warm glow coming from inside. The giant man knocked, and then let us inside as the doors opened, and into the warmth of the castle proper.

Hogwarts was no less impressive from inside as it was from the outside, and I must admit that I did let out exclamations of amazement as we moved forward, just as did the others. I nearly missed it completely when the giant of a man delivered us to the tall, dark haired witch waiting for us, so enthralled I was with the castle itself. I had grown up in a large house hold, of course, but the entrance hall was easily higher than the Longbottom Ancestral Manor.

We were led into a chamber much smaller than the entrance hall, where the dark haired with introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. "The start of the term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into Houses. The sorting is a very important ceremony…" she told us, after introducing herself, explaining us the bones of the sorting ceremony, as well as the four different houses. "The sorting Ceremony will begin in few minutes in front of the rest of rest school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

With that and promise to return shortly, she headed out, leaving us to our own devices. While the others went about getting their clothing and hair into order, I shifted my weight back and forth between my good and bad leg, wishing I had something to lean on at least. The coolness of the boat ride hadn't done me many favours.

"Here," a familiar voice said, and I found Potter standing next to me. His voice was low, and despite the fact of how closely we all were standing, I knew I was the only one whop heard his instructions, "lean onto my shoulder and pretend to straighten the hem of your robes. Use the chance to stretch your leg."

I frowned, but did as he instructed, clasping him by the shoulder and leaning down. It took effort to muffle the grunt as a tensed muscle eased and sharp pain spiked, and then faded away. "Why?" I asked under my breath, as I rolled my ankle unnoticeably, trying to ease the tension further.

"Why not?" he answered, and looked away. He said nothing further, and neither did I, instead I took the opportunity and eased my leg as much as I could.

It felt much better, by the time alarm went through the crowd of students, at the arrival of the school ghosts. I nearly fell over as someone bumped into me in fright, but Potter grasped me by the elbow and pulled me up, to see the transparent figures of spectres, swooping down upon us from the ceiling and walls. It was easy to see that most of my year mates had never seen a ghost, but the way they reacted, but potter didn't flinch in the slightest, even when one of them swooped right over us.

"New students!" one of them, a slightly stout man in preacher's robes, exclaimed at the sight of us. "About to be sorted, I suppose. Hope to see you in Hufflepuff - my old house, you know!"

The ghosts didn't get the chance to say more than that, as it was then that Professor McGonagall returned. "Move along now," she said sharply. "The sorting ceremony is about to start."

The Great Hall is, deservingly, the subject of many tales, descriptions, art works and fond memories of nearly all British magicians. It is grand and welcoming with it's glowing light, produced by the hundreds of candles floating just below the enchanted ceiling. Even though it felt like we were being walked to our death by humiliation, top stand before the whole school while everyone stared, there was a sense of welcome in that magnificent hall. It was like it was there where the Hogwarts castle itself was closest to it's children.

The sorting hat, as my Grandmother had said, was an old, ragged thing, but no less quick witted or mouthed for it's age, as it burst into a song once the silence fell. It was, I suspect, a witty way of introducing new students to it's powers and to the houses, as it detailed itself and it's purpose in the song, but the lyrics of it escape me - just as I suppose they escape everyone who tries to recall the song of their own sorting. Too nervous were we to even hear most of it, really.

Once the song was done and the hat had gotten it's deserved applause, the sorting itself begun. One by one professor McGonagall called our names, one by one we were sorted. I tried to memorise the names and the houses everyone went into, knowing that it would be a smidge more polite to know their names in case I ended up in the same house.

My attention to the sorting peaked slightly, as the professor moved onto the seventh letter and Hermione was called forward. The hat sat upon her head for a long moment, nearly two minutes, before Hermione sighed and it called out, "RAVENCLAW" in the same booming voice it had called every other name. For the first time during the sorting, I clapped my hands, smiling encouragingly at her as she rushed to join her new house mates.

"Good girl," Potter murmured at my side. "She'll do much better there."

"If you know everything, tell me, where will you go?" Weasley asked, but it was rather distracted as we listened to Hudson Daniel get sorted into Ravenclaw as well.

Potter only smiled. "It wouldn't be surprise if I told you, now would it?" he asked.

I glanced at him thoughtfully, for a moment wondering, but then they were sorting Kell Violet and my letter was the next in line. True enough, the call for Longbottom Neville was sounded next, and I moved forward. After I had sat down - and gratefully too - Professor McGonagall set the hat onto my head, and somewhere in between my years I could feel a distant sort of murmuring.

"You're a steady one, make no mistake," the voice murmured, a little clearer now. "You would do well in Gryffindor, much like your family thinks, but I feel a reluctance there."

I closed my eyes. It was, I think, the first time I intentionally felt the urge to go deliberately against the wishes of my family. All my life I had, but in that moment, ahead of me loomed the future my grandmother saw, with me following my father's footsteps as an Auror. And maybe that would've been fine, maybe it would've been grand, but… but. I am still not sure exactly what made me shy away from that thought. Some lingering strand of child's defiance.

"Put me where ever you will," I then thought, pushing aside my own selfishness. If Gryffindor was it then there I would go, even if it would be so obedient of me. "Where ever I will fit," I then amended.

"Where ever I will and where ever you'll fit, well, thankfully for you those are one and the same, for you are the perfect stuff for HUFFLEPUFF!" the last word echoed outside my head, and I knew that everyone had heard it, not just me. As professor McGonagall took the hat, I felt a small measure of guilt mingled with relief, before making my way towards the table that was now _my house_'s table.

I was welcomed with smiles and claps on my back while the rest of the school applauded politely. The boy on my right introduced himself as Justin while the boy across me was called Herbert, he was from year above me. Then the sorting resumed, and I turned my attention back to the front of the hall.

It took good dozen people until a familiar name was called out and while everyone broke out to whispers, my house mates included, Harry Potter moved forward with a sort of understated elegance. The way he sat down on the three legged stool made the stool seem like the most comfortable armchair imaginable, though there was no way he could wear the hat with any sort of grace, as it slipped past his eyes easily enough. The silence that followed was absolute, and so was Harry Potter's stillness as he remained there, no doubt conversing his possibilities with the hat.

"Gryffindor, don't you think?" Asked a boy near by.

"It would be something if he was a Hufflepuff," another said. "Harry Potter in Hufflepuff, that would be really… something.

I ignored them and instead craned my head. I knew he would be neither Gryffindor nor Hufflepuff - not with the mannerism and the intelligence I perceived.

I wasn't disappointed. After the silence had gotten nearly grating, the hat's rip-like mouth finally opened and it burst out, "SLYTHERIN!" which first sent everyone into flurry of gasps and then back into silence, as Harry potter rouse, set down the hat, and strode over to the Slytherin table, where he was immediately made space.

The rest of the sorting went by in a sort of haze, though I don't know if I only imagined it. For me, that word meant very little, as I had already adopted a fairly defeatist attitude towards Hogwarts as far as the house placements went. But for everyone, it was different - unlike me, who had escaped majority of that old prejudice on count of having been thought a squib for so long, majority of them believed the rumours. For them, all dark wizards came from Slytherin. And to see Harry Potter, a national hero, in that house of bad reputation…

After the last students were sorted and Weasley Ronald went to Gryffindor and Zabini Blaise went to Slytherin, the sorting was at it's end. After few singularly strange words of welcome from the Headmaster Dumbledore, the feast begun. Between one blink and another the tables were filled with more food than I had ever seen in a single glance - and the Longbottom Christmas parties were often times fairly over-done.

As everyone begun chatting, some still glancing over their shoulders towards the Slytherin table where Harry Potter sat, I turned to the food. The exercise had left me starving, and I attacked the food gratefully, eagerly reaching for the chicken legs. As I ate, I exchanged introductions with the others near by, learning that Justin was a half blood and that Susan was looking forward to charms and that Hannah sincerely hoped that we had good beds since she was knackered.

After eating my fill and drifting out of the subject matter - which, between the girls, had moved onto fashion and whether or not the modification of the Hogwarts uniforms was allowed, I let my gaze drift. I took in the banners and the candles, realised that my robes were no adorning the black and yellow of a Hufflepuff as were the robes of everyone else in the table. Eventually mi gaze made it's way to the other tables, to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor and then, finally, to Slytherin.

Harry Potter sat among the students of green and silver, a faraway look on his face. Those around him were either ignoring him now or giving him irritated looks. Somehow that didn't surprise me at all, and as I reached for a piece of a pastry, I wondered if he had eaten. He didn't look like he ate enough.

Like feeling my gaze, he glanced towards me. I kept my ground, not allowing myself to be intimidated even though the look on his face bordered on a glare, and after a moment he offered a crooked smile and a nod. I nodded back and then turned to look away again, wondering if Slytherin and Hufflepuff had any classes together.

The feast soon ended, and the Headmaster rouse to give his words of welcome and parting, informing us that the Forbidden Forest was indeed forbidden and that certain items within the school were prohibited. He explained about the upcoming Quidditch try outs before giving his final, ominous warning, "And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

I blinked at that, at the smattered chuckles that faded away into embarrassment as soon as they begun as those who thought it to be a joke realised it wasn't. I glanced around my table as my house mates whispered in puzzlement, wondering. Couple of elder students promised to show the younger students where the corridor in question was so that they could avoid it, and as they did, I glanced backwards.

Gone was the bored, faraway look and there was a gleam of interest in Harry Potter's eyes now.

Somehow that did not surprise me in the slightest.

x

Hufflepuff house is one of the most easily underestimated houses in Hogwarts, and I believe, it will always remain so due to the simple fact that majority of Hufflepuffs neither care nor mind. It is however in my most humble opinion without any doubt the most efficient house in the entirety of Hogwarts, not only in character of the students, but also in tutelage.

It surprised me then, but definitely wouldn't now, how quickly the prefects of my house noticed my limp and moved to attend to it. It happened immediately after the welcoming feast, in fact, after the long walk from the Great Hall down to the Hufflepuff dungeons. The walk was long, and I had to trek down many stair cases much to my grief, and by the time we made it there the limp was no doubt easily discernible.

"You, Longbottom was it? Is your leg alright - did something happen in the train? Do I need to call Professor Sprout?" the male prefect, Russell, asked, coming to my side and crouching down to pat at my leg. "Did you stumble?"

"Ah, no, sir. I broke my leg this spring. It is mostly healed, but it tires -" I started to explain, hoping to dismiss it's importance. I had had enough pity at my family home, I did not wish to start at Hogwarts with my so called tragedy painting me in pitiful tones.

"Okay," Russell said while my fellow first-year Hufflepuffs gave me wide eyed looks. "Oi, Meadows! Transfigure a cane for Longbottom, would you?" he called to one of the elder students, and then turned to me. "Can you manage the night or will we go to Madam Pomfrey immediately? She is the Matron of the hospital wing, she should have something, a pain killer, if you need some -"

"It's fine," I assured, as one of the elder hufflepuffs moved forward, with a broken wood pen in her hand. She was waving her wand over it and as I and my fellow first-years stared, she transformed it smoothly from the small stick it was into a simple but practical cane.

"Is it about the right size?" she asked, placing the cane down and measuring it with her eyes. "But too long, give me a moment… there," she said with satisfaction, magically shortening the cane and then handing it to me. "It won't last more than couple of days, mind you, only masters of transfiguration like Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore can make transfigurations stick."

"Madame Pomfrey should have something he can use, if not, then Professor McGonagall," Russell nodded and smiled to me. "You sure you can handle the night?"

"Yes, sir. A good night's sleep and I will be right as rain," I assured.

"Good man," he nodded, clapping my shoulder and then turning to rest of my future classmates. "Well then, let's go over what you're expected of, now that you're in Hufflepuff."

It was quite a bit, surprisingly enough. It was nothing too taxing, however, and really the expectations had been much higher in the so called boot camp. Aside from being always polite and minding your manners, a Hufflepuff was also expected to help his or her classmates with anything and everything they needed and you had the means to provide. If you were good at one class, you helped others who weren't taking so easily into it. And if you were doing badly, you were expected to ask for help, because hiding your problems was only doing you and others a disservice.

A Hufflepuff was also meant to do his or her own laundry and chores, and every weekend begins with the cleaning of the dormitories and the common room. Each person is assigned tasks, each student performs certain chore, and as with each week they circulate from task to task, everyone gets the chance to learn something. On weekends it is also possible to take some extra lessons as far as house keeping and simple managing of one's life is concerned, and under the guidance of the elder students the younger ones can learn anything from sewing and woodworking to painting of walls and making food and other such important tasks that most wizards I believe completely disregard.

"Of course, provisions will be made for those who are simply incapable. If you're afraid of bugs, we won't be making you clear our bees nests, if you have bad head for heights, we won't make you clean the ceiling, and so forth," the female prefect, Davidson, said with a warm smile. "Any questions?"

There were a few, mostly concerning about how to write home and what to do with they got lost in the castle and so forth. The prefects promised that they would show everyone where the Owlery was and if anyone got lost with no one near by to help, they ought to first ask any possible portraits or ghosts and then, as final resort, to call for house elves. Hogwarts apparently had couple of hundred of them, and they were always willing to help students out - but any student caught misusing this privilege would be severely punished.

"We will cover more of what you're to expect tomorrow, when you lot are a bit better rested. Now come on, let us show you to your dormitories. Boys with me, girls with Davidson!" Russell said, and leaning to my cane at every other step, I followed him and other boys of my class to the room where I would be sleeping majority of my nights for the following seven years.

It was, much like the circular common room where fire blazed and all sofas and armchairs were blush and comfortable, very cosy. The walls were hued with gentle gold and the floor was covered in similar carpets, and the beds were a thing of beauty. Luxuriously big with curtains hanging from their posts, with desks at the side of each bed and our trunks at the foot of them.

"You can switch beds if you have preferences," Russell said as I and others of my class moved forward to examine them. "Each dormitory has it's own bathroom, which is where you will also be doing your laundry, though don't worry about that just yet. Firsties get a month worth of freedom as far as laundry goes, until the rest of us can show you how," the prefect said. "There are closest and clothing hooks there for each of you. I suggest you make a bathing schedule so that everyone gets a chance. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir," I said, holding my hand up. "If I wanted to set up aquarium or terrarium for my frog, would that be allowed?" I asked, and motioned at Trevor in his bowl. "My uncle gave him to me, but he didn't know much about the differences between frogs and toads, I'm afraid, and I didn't have the time to get proper equipment for him."

"If you keep it on your desk and make sure it doesn't cause any undue trouble for anyone else, then it is alright," Russel agreed, frowning slightly at the sight of my bullfrog. "Do you need help acquiring the tank?"

"I'd appreciate it, yes," I nodded.

"I'll talk with professor Sprout, she uses some for her green house so she might have one she doesn't need," the prefect promised. "Any other questions?"

My dorm mates had a couple, and while they went about getting their answers, I stepped forward to move Trevor in his bowl to the desk. After that I sat down to the bed, setting my transfigured cane to lean onto the table. I knew I probably should have started unpacking and moved my school books and such to the desk, but I was too tired after all the walking - all I really wanted was to stretch my leg.

After Russell deemed us safely informed for the night, he left us to our own devices. It was then I realised that my classmates were about as tired as I was, as they yawned and stretched and want about getting their pyjamas.

"What'd happen to your leg anyway?" Justin asked, while shrugging his pyjama top on.

"I fell off a roof," I answered honestly, thinking back to it. It was bit of a pity I had - it would've been great victory, if I hadn't.

"Ouch. Sorry, mate. Must've hurt," he said, stretching and then falling to his bed with a contented sigh. "Just tell me tomorrow if you nee help carrying your things or something."

"I will," I promised, though I doubted I would - neither need nor tell, if I did. Shaking my head I pulled on my own pyjamas and stretched myself out on my bed, sighing softly. It was ever so much better, to be off my feet.

I fell asleep nearly instantly and I dreamed of nothing - with no notion of the interesting times ahead of me.

**Chapter two**  
**Character Study**

The tales of Hogwarts are as many as it's students and it's arts, and each year, each moment, it produces one more. My story there had both a fairly ordinary and fairly uncommon start, as I fell first into the normal rhythm of a perfectly ordinary student, and then very quickly out of it.

The first day was fairly normal, or as normal a s a day in a magic school can be. In the morning before breakfast and classes I was taken to the hospital wing and was assigned with a new cane and suggested a variety of pain relieving potions, all which I declined. Madam Pomprey pronounced my leg good and healing but that it would take some months before it would stop aching completely - something I already knew.

After that I spent a moment writing a letter to my grandmother informing her of my placement in the Hufflepuff house. It was not by any means a easy letter for me to write, and I already dreaded the answer, lest it be a howler informing me I should have tried better. But I wrote it nonetheless and remained as frank as I could. I did not, of course, apologise for failing because in my mind, I had not failed at anything yet and that knowledge kept me firm.

After that, it was breakfast and then magic lessons for the first time in my life.

Magic for me was, each day, a wonder to behold. After so many years spent in the perfect knowledge that I would never possess it and each time I held my wand, second hand as it was, was a marvel for me. And so was, in equal amounts, each spell I learned, even though some of them took longer than others. I was not by any means the perfect or the smartest of students but I pride myself in the fact that even among a crowd of Hufflepuffs I was one of the more hard working ones, and for that I thank my utter gratitude and fascination with magic.

And I thanked for it twice as hard because for all it's wonder and fantasy, Hogwarts was what it was, a school, and schools tend to achieve a level of monotonous repetition even when the subject matters were so fantastical. Magic, when you performed it, was always a miracle - but even miracles gained the taste of wood when you had to repeat them over and over and over without deviation or elaboration.

There was also some difficult… issues with certain subjects that had nothing to do with the subject matter or the art itself, but rather the teacher. Professor Binns, a ghost of era of even deeper monotony than the one I spent my childhood in, was not the most encaging of teachers. Professor McGonagall was strict and oftentimes hard to understand for her use of difficult vocabulary that I did not completely comprehend until my second and third year. Professor Quirrell was, in my mind, a complete failure as a teacher, too afraid of his own subject to manage. And finally there was Professor Snape - who was strict to a fault, surpassing even professor McGonagall in his expectations that none, save for some exceptional students, could meet.

Had I not suffered through the roars of the teachers and trainers back at the boot camp, I suspect I wouldn't have been able to sit straight in the potions lessons. Several of my classmates couldn't, in fact. Justin stood his ground as well as he could, as did Susan, but Hannah quivered like a leaf that first class after breaking a phial and wouldn't stop until lunch time. For me the hardest part in professor Snape's lessons was the standing - there were no chairs in professor Snape's classroom for he believed in the more elitist methods of potioneering that demanded the brewer's full attention. Even I, a _cripple_ as some of the Slytherins came to call me, gained no pardon from that.

It was what made me accept Madame Pomfrey's insistence of pain relieving potions, that I declined in that first meeting where I exchanged the transfigured cane into a real one, but that is neither here or there.

"Just ignore him, Hannah," Susan suggested to our shaken classmate after that first lesson. "You're a Hufflepuff so outside that classroom he's nothing to us, but a sour Potions master. And all he does is yell, nothing more."

"But-but he was so _mad_!" Hannah answered, voice quivering. "I thought he was going to have me cleaning it right there and then with my bare hands, and everything! If he's going to be like that the next time -"

"Just ignore it," Susan said again, squeezing her shoulders.

"Or don't," Justin said, nudging at her side. "Imagine he's a show on the telly and it turns kind of funny. Or on a the radio," he suggested. "He's acting a part in a play. Nothing he says is the truth. Something like that."

"But I know it isn't like that," Hannah answered and sighed. "But thanks. I will… I will be better prepared the next time."

As I familiarised myself with the classes and figured out the schedule of the school, I could tell from the distance how those I had met in the train did the same. Hermione, now a Ravenclaw and growing to be fast friends with Padme Patil, seemed to be doing well, even at a distance. There was a gleam of enthusiasm in her eyes, and she seemed to be in deeply invigorating discussion with her house mates every time I saw her. She confirmed it, when Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had a joined class of Transfiguration, where we ended up paired together.

"Oh, it is wonderful," she said to me, while guiding me through the steps of matchstick-to-a-needle transfiguration. "The common room is just lovely, as are the dormitories of course, and we all have out own bookshelves - and the entrance to the Ravenclaw tower is just fascinating, you learn something new every time. And each night me and the others sit down and talk about everything we've learned, what we've read and what we intend to read, it is just _wonderful_."

"I'm glad," I said, and I really was. There had been a strange reluctance and anxiety in her eyes when we had talked in the train, like she was deep inside worried about something. That anxiety was gone now, replaced by sheer enthusiasm and it was delight to see. "Potter was right, then," I noted.

Hermione stilled for a moment and then frowned, looking away. "Yes," she finally said, with some measure of reluctance. "We shared a class with the Gryffindors. It was… they weren't very serious about it, after the first few minutes," she admitted. "They spent most of the rest of the class mocking about."

I nodded. "Have you had a class with Slytherins yet?" I asked, wondering what it was like, a class with Potter in it.

"Once, in Herbology lessons," Hermione admitted. She glanced at me and then shook her head. "I didn't talk to him, I didn't want to - and besides, I was paired with Padma and he was in the other end of the room."

I nodded and didn't push it further. It seemed that in my fascination about Harry Potter was mostly alone within the circle of people I knew in Hogwarts - Hufflepuffs, in general, did not pry into affairs of others and Hermione, but the looks of it, simply didn't care.

It made me look forward to our Astrology lesson however - it would be the first lesson Hufflepuffs shared with Slytherins. I did not let this show, however.

It occurred to me sometime around then that I wasn't what you would call a model Hufflepuff, as far as curiosity went. Hufflepuffs were meant to be a steady, sound lot that minded their business and helped others, but never pried into their personal matters. If there was a kid from another house being bullied then, yes, the Hufflepuffs would have done something about it without doubt. But sticking one's nose into business of a student with seemingly no problems and some level of need to keep their privacy, that was something a Hufflepuff did not do.

I, however, did. I wonder if it is my upraising, the strictness of my childhood and the long years of having been stuck to minding my own business - or not, not really, my business had been minded by others way too carefully for me to have any hand at it. Or maybe I simply had already then a keen interest in mysteries and puzzles and it was simply in my nature. Whichever it was, after that meeting in Hogwarts express and the words exchanged on the way to the castle, I could not put him out of my mind.

There was something very peculiarly interesting in Harry potter and it had nothing to do with his status as a national hero of world wide fame. Something about the way he spoke, the way he had deduced Trevor's location, my name, the way he had calculated the distance over the lake and sawn right through my attempt of hiding my agitated leg… it intrigued me.

Because Harry Potter did not act like a child of eleven - but rather like something else, not quite a man but definitely not a boy either.

And so, with that mind and eyes keenly open for any hints as to why he was the way he was, I prepared for my first astronomy lesson. It turned out to be without doubt the most interesting one I had been yet.

x

"That's it, I've had it!" called a girl in other side of the roof of the Astronomy Tower. I glanced up from my telescope to see how the Slytherin girl that had been the source of the outburst threw her hands up into the air before pointing behind her. "He's not even trying, Professor, and he keeps on distracting me!"

I blinked and at first didn't see what she was pointing in the dark roof top. Then, there, I saw him. Harry potter was laying on his back on the stone floor of the rooftop, arm thrown over his eyes and one leg casually crossed over another.

"Well, what seems to be the matter?" the professor asked, coming over to the pair of them. As she saw Harry Potter, she let out a sharp sound. "Mr Potter, get up this instant. This is a lesson, and I will not have you behaving as if this was your private time. Up, I say!"

With a irritated huff he did so, glaring at the girl and then giving the professor an annoyed look. "I don't see the point, professor," he said plainly, pushing himself backwards and to lean against roof baluster.

"The point - the _point_! Mr Potter, if not for the respect of the art or the respect of the teacher then you will sit straight and pay attention as simple matter of being polite!" Sinistra answered sharply. "Now, if you are having some problems with the subject matter, then you should have brought it immediately to my attention and -"

"Decorum is not the problem and I see no _difficulty_ with the subject matter, aside from the fact that it is utterly pointless to learn," the Slytherin answered, looking away. "It would be much more meaningful to learn about the designs of telescopes or, indeed, the structure of this tower, than it was to learn about the distant twinkling lights above our heads. Utterly pointless."

"Pointless? How so?" Sinistra asked, folding her arms and eying Potter severely. "Explain me your reasoning and I will dispute it."

"You will not, because there is no way to dispute it. It is pointless to learn astronomy because astronomy affects every day life in no way. What does it matter to us what the names of this or that star are, what does the so called patterns they form matter? None, absolutely none," Potter answered. "The life on this planet would be in no way altered should we think the stars are in fact pearls or crystals or that the Sun was a orange on fire. The distinction, right or wrong, would make no difference what so ever."

"Why, I never -! That's detention for you, young man, Saturday morning in my office, at nine. And if you cannot behave as you ought to for the rest of the lesson, I will have to ask you to leave," Sinistra snapped at him, before turning to the Slytherin girl. "Well then, Miss Bulstrode. Let's see if we can find a group you can be the third in., Would anyone here mind taking Miss Bulstrode into their group?"

I glanced at the Slyterin girl I had been paired up with, as the numbers on both sides had been uneven. "You mind pairing with Bulstrode?" I asked.

Parkinson huffed. "I'd prefer it," she answered and turned to the professor, already raising her voice.

I cut in before she could. "Professor," I called. "I could pair with Potter, and then Parkinson can pair with Bulstrode. If that is alright?"

"What? Mr Longbottom?" the teacher asked with surprise, while Potter gave me a thoughtful look. "No, no, just take Miss Bulstrode into your group, that will do - Mr Potter has proved to be a difficult one to partner with, and I shouldn't want it to hinder your studies -"

"I don't mind," I answered, and quickly collected my bags and my telescope and left Parkinson's side. She had been making snide comments about my leg, the sort of _get me that, if you would, or is too far away for you, should I fetch a wheelchair?_ sort. He certainly didn't mind a useless study partner, when it freed me from an insulting one.

Not to mention the fact that it gave me the much anticipated chance to exchange few words with potter.

"Oh, very well then," Professor Sinistra sighed. "But no more interruptions from you, Mr. Potter."

Potter answered nothing, and as the professor moved to attend to the other students, I made my way to his side. "Hm," the black haired boy said, as I kneeled to one knee, and then set my cane to lean onto the baluster. "I won't be much of a study partner, I trust you know that."

"I got that impression, yes," I agreed and begun setting my telescope again, setting the sight for Orion. "I don't mind. Parkinson was being a… bother."

"I'm sure," Potter answered, and then sat down in oddly elegant cross legged position in one smooth motion. He looked at me sharply for a long moment. "You've been given pain relievers. You handle your leg much better now, but not because it is healing any faster."

"Yeah. With the standing we need to do in professor Snape's lessons, I needed them," I shrugged awkwardly and peered into the telescope. It was about right.

"Snape," Potter muttered and let out a sharp bark of laughter that wasn't as amused as it was haughty. "There is a man of contradictions, one of the worse I have yet to encounter," he mused, and leaned back against the stone baluster, closing his eyes. "Man of elegant art, a superior artist in fact, forced to hate his own private delight due to having to share it with simpletons. Oh, I feel his pain, at times."

I blinked sharply at that, and then glanced at him. "What?"

Potter snorted again, shaking his head. "When he learned potions, it was a private joy for him, possibly taught to him by a close family member - his mother I should think, considering that his father was most likely a muggle. And in secret too, the lessons were both private and intimate. A fond secret and a great pride for him, after she passed away," he explained, making a delicate motion with his hand, like in attempt of physically demonstrating the sensation. "And here he is now, watching day by day how bumbling amateurs lumber about his house of subtle measures, clumsily tearing their way through the most delicate of procedures with no care or respect for the fine art it is."

I stared at him wide eyed for a long moment. I had never heard anyone speak so elegantly before - and Potter was talking about _Severus Snape_ of all people. "Sounds like you enjoy his lessons," I mused, a bit bewildered.

"Oh, I detest them. Artist the man may be and master at his craft, but a teacher he is not, not even a bad one. What more he is plagued by his childhood grudges and he forcibly personifies his own hatred and jealousy for my father in me," Potter snorted, waving his hand, now in sharp dismissive motion. "Not to mention that he is so used to having fools for students that those of us with better understanding for the finer intricacies of potion making are never allowed to elaborate in his class, because he treats us all the same."

The quick switch between admiring the man's talents as a potion maker and then insulting his abilities as a teacher threw me off for a moment, before I shook myself straight again. "How do you know all that?" I asked, unable to help myself.

Potter peaked one eye open and the lifted his head. "I believe you've had enough a chance to delve into my methods, Mr Longbottom. To reveal all of my means of observation would eventually put me out of my job," he answered and then opened his other eye as well. "Why do you want to know?"

"I don't know. It seems fascinating, is all," I shrugged and then frowned. "And you don't have a job - you can't. You're _eleven_."

"As are you. That doesn't mean anything, not really," Potter answered. "Fascinating," he then said, like tasting the word. "Really?"

"Are you saying you do have a job?" I asked, my telescope all but forgotten now. "How is that possible? How does a eleven year old get a job?"

"That, Mr Longbottom, is a discussion better left for late date - or perhaps for that elusive _never_ that seems to work so well," Potter answered shaking his head and then slumping back down again. "Very well. If you think my methods are so fascinating, I grant you a question. Something from the first of September, I should think."

"What?" I asked, and then frowned at him as he gave me a look that told me blain and clear that he though I was being slow. "Oh, come on, how am I supposed to know what you mean? You're being about as clear and straight forward as devil's snare in daylight!"

"Interesting analogy, considering that the plant withers in daylight," Potter mused. "What I mean is that there was a mystery to be deduced in the first of September."

"Mr Longbottom!" Sinistra snapped at me. "Concentrate onto the task of finding Orion's Belt, if you would!"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered quickly and turned to my telescope again, before glancing at Potter carefully. "That mystery, you deduced it?" I asked under my breath, and he raised his eyebrows in a sort of way that made me feel a bit slow again. "Fine. Um…" I thought back. Potter had deduced surprisingly lot of things back then, but he had explained most of them and I could guess most of the others. "Oh I got it. Weasley told me you told him his life store, guessed, um, how many siblings he had. How did you do that?"

"Oh, you disappoint me," Potter sighed, slumping down completely and folding his arms with what I could only describe is a brooding huff. "But very well. I deduced the number of siblings he had from his wand and luggage and from the clothing he wore. Firstly, his clothing all smattered across the ages. His robes were at least four years old, his shoes three years, his shirt at least two, and all of varying sizes. That alone indicated two different brothers, one taller than him and possibly elder at least by four years. He got his shirt from another individual larger than himself, but stouter rather than longer like the previous owner of his robes - wider around the shoulders judging by the size of his shirt. I guessed that they were twins because the shoes Weasley wore are matching, but of two different sets identical in every way except the amount of wear they had gone through."

Potter huffed at my look. "And no, they couldn't come from a second hand store, not with the amount of tear and wear - all the clothing were new to him, but too old and worn for any reasonable person to try and sell. Also, the scent of his clothing was exact same as that of his luggage and his own person, not that of recently bought and recently washed, which would still maintain some scent of the store or the previous owner. No, he smelled of one place, his own home, and nothing else."

"Okay, that counts for three brothers," I murmured. "I understand there are others?"

"Two more, and them I deduced from his wand and luggage. His wand was from someone older than him, by my account at least seven years older, and therefore it couldn't come from any of the brothers who were still in Hogwarts - which would make no sense, in any case, as they all needed their wands," Potter continued. "I doubt a parent would've given their own wand that was only seven years old away, and for that matter the wand Weasley has is in poor condition, treated carelessly for many years, there fore, it belonged to a child and then to a teen, who did not bother to be careful. It could've been from a cousin, of course, but he is proud and I suspect that pride is reflection of that of his family, they wouldn't have accepted help, even from distant family."

Potter shifted back and closed his eyes. "Finally, his luggage. It still bears the initials and markings of BW and scribbling of what seemed to be _BW, heart, JR_ with the date of 1982 in it, which predates the age of the wand that, as far as I could tell, has only seen use since 1983 at the earliest. Hence, four brothers, two of them twins, two already graduated from Hogwarts."

He made a dismissive motion with his hand. "And I deduced the existence of a sister from card sticking out from his luggage, a pink farewell card to be precise, with Ginny Weasleys name written to it in handwriting that could not belong to anyone but a child."

I stared at him wide eyed for a long moment. "That's fantastic," I said, unable to stop myself. "You - all of that, just by looking at him and his luggage? How long did it take you?"

"Approximately fifteen seconds," Potter answered with a heavy sigh. "What a waste of a question," he murmured, before sliding down from where he leaned onto the baluster and landing on his back beside it. "What a boring night, he sighed, crossing his hands behind his neck

"What should've I asked then?" I wondered. "Why were the other Slytherins ignoring you? Or, um, how did you figure my leg out?"

"Oh, juvenile. They were ignoring me because I made some remarks that hit uncomfortably close to home for them and your leg was easy," he sighed again. "You were perspiring but not breathing hard and yet it was not hot enough in the train for you to be sweating because of that, therefore you were in pain. That was backed up by the look of strain on your face, the way you rested your weight completely onto one leg and kept the other in careful bent."

"What then?" I asked, irritated despite my sheer enthralment about how he was just dishing out these incredible observations as if they were nothing at all. Shaking my head thought back to the first of September. Some mystery - what had I missed? For a moment my mind could only come up with what had happened in the train and nothing more - maybe what Potter had said to Hermione? No, that would be as _boring_ as the rest of it. Something else then?

"Oh," I said, as I remembered what professor Dumbledore had said. I turned to potter and asked, "Why is the third floor corridor sealed off?"

"That, Mr Longbottom, is precisely the question," he answered with a small, satisfied smile.

"So what is it?"

He shook his head. "If I already knew, it wouldn't be interesting, now would it?" he asked, and then sat up a bit straighter. "How much longer must we endure this travesty of a lesson?" he then asked, glancing around and frowning at professor Sinistra's back. "Surely we've been here for hours already?"

"More like half an hour, really," I answered, and gave him a look. "You really don't like astronomy, do you?"

"It is not that I don't like it, it is that I don't see the point in studying it," Potter sighed, and lay back down again irritably. "None of it makes difference in real life. We might as well be studying the psychological effects of the colours of butterfly's wings for all the good it will do to us."

I smothered the odd, sudden urge to grin with amusement. Instead I said, "You will need to know this to pass your tests."

"The happy thing is that I don't need to pass those tests. Hogwarts as it is will pass you no matter how badly you do. It is only the OWLs and NEWTs that count, and I will do just as well in those without bothering to try and figure out which way the Sun goes."

I blinked and glanced at him. "Which way the Earth goes," I corrected.

"Pardon?" he asked, without any actual interest.

"It's which way the Earth goes. The Earth goes around the Sun, not the other way around," I said slowly, wondering if he was really serious.

"Does it really? How utterly inconsequential," he answered and turned to lie on his side with his back to me. "Wake me up when the class is over, would you, Mr. Longbottom? I'd be much obliged."

I stared at the back of his messy head for a long moment in utter astonishment, before looking away. I had encountered a lot of eccentricities in my young life - the Longbottom family had several less than balanced individuals in it, my own parents included. But I had yet to discover a individual so blatantly brilliant as Harry Potter - who didn't know that the _Earth went around the Sun_.

Shaking my head I went back to peering through my telescope - but my mind was elsewhere to say at least, and for the rest of the lessons I couldn't help but wonder if he was really right - if there was really no use at all in learning astronomy.

x

After the Astronomy lesson, at the end of which only I had done anything resembling work in our so called team and Potter didn't only not care about it in the slightest but also declined my offer to let him copy my notes, I did not get the chance to talk with Harry Potter for several days. Slytherins and Hufflepuffs shared only two classes, Astronomy and Charms, and though there were several charms lessons where I and Harry potter were in the same class, I was not paired with him, and he was always the last to arrive and the first to leave. And he was impossible to catch in the off-school time, since it didn't seem like he much ventured out of the Slytherin dungeons, not even to the library

In the days after the astronomy lessons, I thought about what he had said - about lot of things. Being able to deduce so many details about a person's clothing - and somehow I was certain that I had only scratched the surface there with Potter - was incredible. As was what he had said about professor Snape - I spent one of the potions lessons carefully paying attention to the man and yes, I could see some hint of what potter had said in the way the man spoke, the way he moved about the laboratory. There was always a master's utter impatience with the utter novice student about the man.

I couldn't help but wonder if potter could unearth such details about the other professors - what was the back-story behind professor McGonagall, or professor Flitwick? What about professors Sprout and Quirrell? Even then I knew I wasn't as much curious about my teachers as I was of the means through which Potter might've seen through them to the truth of things.

I did also spend some time wondering about Astronomy - I even went as far as to ask around about what my fellow Hufflepuffs thought, was Astronomy really meaningful in every day life? Most said it was - astronomy was where calendars and horoscopes came from, Astrology was inherently linked with Astronomy, as was several other modes of Divination. I pressed all those points to my mind, to serve them as counter argument the next time I got the chance to talk with Potter - during the next astronomy lesson, perhaps.

The one thing that eventually caught my interest the most was not how potter did it, his deductions, but why. What was the purpose, what was the goal? It must've taken time and patience to learn to discern the difference between a year's or four years' wear on set of robes. What was the point behind it all? And, since potter was so keenly against Astronomy because it _had no appliance in real life_… what was the worth of his observational skills, then?

In hindsight I now see how the more I knew about him, the less I understood and all the while, the mystery surrounding him intrigued me. It was there I think that my lifelong love for mysteries and puzzles truly begun, in the feeble attempts of solving the mysteries surrounding that one Slytherin.

It was in Saturday when I finally caught a chance to talk with him - or he caught me - and despite having known that he had detention with professor Sinistra, it was purely by accident that we ended up crossing paths. I had been helping a fellow Hufflepuff find out where she might've dropped her favourite quill, and she had just found it and turned to head back when Harry potter came around the corner, and nearly ran into me.

"What the bloody -" I started and was quickly silenced as he clapped his hand onto my mouth, giving me a severe look. As I gave him wild eyed one in return, he glanced quickly around and then, first lifting a finger to his lips to silence me and then motioning me to follow, led me into a near by empty classroom.

"Potter, what is -?" I tried again, but he hushed me up with annoyed hand motion, while hurriedly walking to the windows and wrenching one of them open. For a moment it looked like he was fully intending to jump out of it, with the way he leaned out, craning his head from side to side and looking around intently - and we were in the fourth floor. However, even as I took few hasty steps to stop him if in case he was meaning to do something foolish, he withdrew, looking satisfied.

Confused, I stepped forward even as he pulled out his wand and fiddled it with for a moment, holding it delicately as if it was made of glass.

"Can I trust in your discretion, Mr Longbottom?" he asked then, his voice low and quiet.

"With what?" I asked, confused.

He grinned - or it was as close to a grin as he ever gets in his odd, half felt expressions. Then, as I stood there without the faintest idea what was going on, he waved the wand over the both of us with look of keen concentration on his face, mouthing silent words as he did. At first, I thought the spell had no effect - that he was mocking about, it wasn't like we knew more than two spells by then.

But then it hit me. First utter cacophony of noise and taste and sensation - then the blinding brightness screening from the window, like physical blow. I might've let out a sound as I let for of my cane in order to try and shield my eyes from the painful light - I most likely did, considering the way it made potter act. In instant his hands were shielding my eyes, and he was murmuring, "Concentrate, concentrate!"

"What _is that_?" I asked - somewhat louder than I intended. The world was twisting all around me and my head was hurting with ferociousness that made my leg feel perfectly normal and alright.

"Supersensory charm. It is still the development stages and can be somewhat intense," Potter answered, is voice impossibly quiet and still so loud it echoed in my ears, supercharged with the spell. "Just keep your eyes shut and concentrate. There is a room above us and a wizard and two witches up there are having a conversation. Can you hear them?"

"No, I -" I answered, because at that moment all I could hear was the booming sound of my own heart, like mountain sized drum right inside me. But then, very vaguely, I heard it - a distant murmur. Turning my head, I followed and sure enough, I could hear a conversation. First muffled and dull, but then clearer as my abused senses latched onto it like a lifeline, letting everything else fade away.

"… something, surely. If nothing else we should be able to ask the boy where he's been all these years!" a familiar voice spoke, and with a jerk I realised that it was professor McGonagall's voice, now clear as crystal in my ears as if it was talking right next to me.

"No, my dear, I'm afraid not," another voice, this one male, answered and after a moment I realised it was professor Dumbledore's voice, airy and as old as the man himself. "However it was done, I am not entirely certain, but my hands are perfectly bound as far as he goes. The Board of Governors is most strict about it."

"The Board of Governors!" McGonagall huffed with disbelief. "When ever have anything they said had any true value, aside from being completely detrimental to the function of this establishment."

"And what they don't know they can't disapprove," professor Sinistra's voice noted.

"It is not something I dare to risk. A contract was written and should I break it the effects on this school would be devastating. No, I cannot meddle with the boy's affairs, not unless he comes to me," the headmaster answered with a sigh. "The Board has gotten decisively more active since the imprisonment of Luscious Malfoy. I was glad of it, at the time, of course - their functions haven't been more efficient in years. But now… well, perhaps there is still a sinister force out there, that has a grip on the board."

"And on young Mister Potter too," Professor McGonagall muttered darkly, and with a start I opened my eyes to look at Potter who was standing completely still beside me. They were talking about him? The Slytherin opened one eye and glanced at me, before lifting his finger to his mouth to keep me quiet, and then closing his eyes again.

In the distance, McGonagall still continued. "Potter in Slytherin. Preposterous. If he had been raised like he ought to have been, this would have never happened."

"Does anyone still have any idea where he was raised - or by whom?" Professor Sinistra asked.

"No one has the faintest of idea. Not even my ministry contacts can help me there," the Headmaster answered and sighed. "I am tired, and this talking has gotten me all parched. Would you mind getting us a pot of tea, Aurora dear? I would be much obliged."

"… yes, of course Headmaster. I will be right back," the astronomy professor agreed somewhat reluctantly, and soon after I could hear a door opening and closing.

"Is there really no clues at all, not even now that he is in Hogwarts?" McGonagall asked.

"None, except for what we discovered five years ago, when the Dursleys were put under that foolish investigation," Dumbledore answered. "Nothing but the initials MH of the person who supposedly adopted him, written on the adoption papers. And for all his best efforts, even Severus has not been able to discern anything more, aside from what everyone else knows. He is brilliant, he looks well, but -"

"But he is completely _wrong_," McGonagall muttered and I could hear her steps as she paced along the room. "Completely dismissing the importance of astronomy, he barely shows up in history lessons, he is impossibly rude to everyone he comes across. And he is a model Slytherin if I ever saw one - his parents must be turning in their graves."

"Well, now, my dear, that is very rude," the headmaster said. "He is still young so there is hope for him yet -"

"Is there, Albus? Really? Because the more I look at that boy, the less I see the child he is supposed to be. He doesn't even act like a child! Whoever was the monster that raised him, they raised him completely twisted and I for one will have great many nightmares trying to wonder how exactly they did it."

"There is still hope," Professor Dumbledore said sternly. "He is still young, only eleven years old. Once we get to the bottom of this miserable business and unearth the villain that kidnapped him, then we can set things straight once more. The Dursleys have already recovered from the child neglect lawsuits and have rebuild their family - once the time is opportune, we can return Harry to where he belongs and where he is the safest. With guidance I am sure he can be set to straight, never fear."

Potter snorted softly at that, drawing my attention away from conversation for a moment. He didn't open his eyes, but the look on his face was definitely sardonic, and by the stiff curl of his lip I could tell that he was smothering the urge to bark out that haughty laugh of his.

"Yes, well, first we will have to find what happened, and where he has been kept, don't we?" McGonagall said. "And after five years, how much process have we had?"

Dumbledore didn't answer, as that was the point when Sinistra returned with the tea tray, and they swiftly changed the conversation topics away and to Potter's poor performance in the Astronomy lessons.

"That is enough, I think," potter whispered beside me, and held his want a loft again, dispelling the disorienting magic he had laid upon us. I faltered a little, but potter steadied me and swiftly collected my cane from the floor, placing it to my hand. "The first spell I learned, the super sensory charm. In credibly useful and definitely worth the time I took," the Slytherin said. "But it is a bit rough around the edges still. Maybe one day they will perfect it."

"I've never heard of it," I answered, while potter moved to the window and pulled it down.

"Of course not. It's one of Ministry's secret tricks, that they don't share with your ordinary wizarding folk," the Slytherin answered, stroking a hand over his chin and letting his smothered smile break loose. "So, they know even less than I feared - next to nothing, in fact. Excellent."

I frowned, and shifted to lean onto the edge of a broken desk that stood askew in the middle of the classroom. "Were you really kidnapped?" I asked thoughtfully.

"Kidnapped? What, no, of course not," the Slytherin answered with an impatient tone in his voice. "No, no, it was a transaction of simple convenience on both our parts, legal in nearly every aspect - and some might even say that I was, in fact, rescued."

"Both your parts?" I asked dully. "Rescued?"

"Yes, rescued from the incredibly destructive atmosphere that dominated the life in the Dursley Household," Potter answered, sighing. "My blood kin," he then explained. "Never were there a family of three more boring individuals. I managed to endure it for five long years but any more than that and my mental faculties would have simply withered away. I had to do something."

"_You_ had to do something? When you were, what, five?" I repeated with disbelief. "What did you do?

"I was six, actually. I anonymously informed the police that my guardians were severely neglecting the health and wellbeing of the children under their care. It was all true, of course - I had some picture material to prove it too," Potter answered, running a hand over his hair and smiling sharply. "And with some nudging even the police realised the truth. I was put, for a while, into the care of the child services, but if my so called kidnapping hadn't occurred, I suspect I wouldn't have stayed there for long in any case. Professor Dumbledore seems to have a keen interest about my placement, as it is."

He made a dismissive motion. "But that is neither here nor there. What I wanted to find out I have now found out. Albus Dumbledore and his people know nothing. Excellent."

I shook his head. It didn't seem excellent to me. "If you were kidnapped - I'm sorry, _rescued_ - when you were six then why haven't I ever heard about this?"

"Why would you have?" the Slytherin asked, giving me a look.

"You're Harry Potter - everyone should've heard about it!"

"Indeed? Well that name doesn't really mean anything these days - except in some glow of misplaced nostalgia. In truth it is no more meaningful than the mask worn by actor, the makeup of a conjurer," Potter answered, throwing his head somewhat dramatically back. "I suppose it did not make the news because, regardless of what you and our most esteemed Headmaster may think, everything was and is as it should be. Nothing more and nothing less. What is left now is what trouble Professor Dumbledore may cause in his foolish quest to do _right_ by me."

He let out a bark of amused, cruel laughter and then strode towards the door. Before making it to the door, however, he stopped and whirled around. "I trust I can rely on you be discreet about this?" he then asked, and it didn't sound as much a question as it sounded like an order. "It would be understandably awkward for me, should rumours arise."

I snorted at that. My head was still spinning after the spell, after what I had heard. "Who would I tell - who would believe me?" I asked with disbelief, because I barely believed it myself. Harry Potter not-kidnapped for five years, now spying his would be saviours with apparently no intention of being liberated from his so called kidnapping? Not to mention about him having his own relatives sentenced for neglect?

The most bewildering of all of it how easily he let me see it all, to hear it - and not just that, but he had given me the means. Why? It was incredibly private information and we had only talked so many times before, and very briefly all the other times except for the latest. There was no way he knew to trust me. Right?

"Good, very good," Potter nodded and gave me a satisfied smile. With that, the matter seemed sealed. "Coming?"

I hesitated. "Where?" I then asked, even while pushing myself to my feet and gripping my cane a little tighter.

"I missed breakfast, as did you. I thought we could both use a quick hop down to the kitchens. If you're up to it, of course."

"How did you - ah, never mind," I sighed, shaking my head. How he knew I hadn't eaten breakfast yet didn't matter, not in the grand scheme of things. "Yeah, sure. I'd love to get something to eat."

"Excellent. Come along then."

It was only later I realised that what I head was not even the tip of the iceberg.

x

After that Saturday, the majority of which I somehow ended up spending with Harry potter, it became a habit of ours o meet up after lessons in the Hogwarts kitchens. Potter never told me how he knew about the location of the kitchen or how to get in - the painting guarding the entrance seemed perfectly common to me and nothing seemed to give it away - but somehow he knew. And not only did he know, but in the week or so we had spent in Hogwarts, he had already somehow recruited several of the younger elves of castle to his service.

"My eyes and ears in Hogwarts, they will be," he told me one time, when we were alone in one of the study rooms near the library - he doing the actual studying and him lounging about in boredom. "They deliver my missives for me, they keep me informed of comings and goings of the professors and students on occasion - perfectly harmless for them to do it, I assure you, and they are breaking no oaths. In return I invent tasks for them to do."

"Tasks?" I asked with a scowl. We had elves in the Longbottom manor too, but after my upbringing I could never bring myself to command them - if there was a task to be done, I did it myself. To hear that he was enlisting the aid of the young elves in exchange for more tasks…

"In a way they get paid double for everything they do for me," Potter mused. "Before they are anything else, House elves are creatures of ritual magic. That is why they thrive in servitude - each chore and each insipid little task we humans give them is a small ritual in it's own way - a ritual of hunt or bringing what was broken together. Power in symbolism, like it is with all rituals - and with each ritual he or she performs a House Elf grows a slightest bit more powerful. It is like exercising a muscle for them, except by doing chores they exercise their magic. So, therefore, the more I give them to do, the stronger they will be for it. Surely everyone knows that."

"Well, I didn't," I sighed. It made a sort of sense though.

"I suppose there my spiritual kinship with house elves comes from," Potter mused, even though there was no such kinship to be seen and really to even try and picture it was ludicrous. "They, very much like I, wither in stagnation when we have no worthy tasks to perform and worthy goals to pursuit."

"And what is that supposed to mean? Surely you have more than enough work here at Hogwarts."

"Oh, studies. I will grant you, some of it is terribly fascinating and there is potential in other subjects, but so much time is wasted in between," he sighed.

"Maybe you need to read a bit ahead or something to keep yourself occupied," I mused, turning back to my transfiguration homework.

"I have. There is nothing left for me to look forward to this year as far as school subjects go, I'm afraid," he answered, and slumped down in his chair. "all that is left for me is that third floor corridor, and it is most closely guarded much to my irritation. If it is not the janitor, then it is our esteemed potions master or our deputy head mistress or any other of the teachers."

I blinked and glanced up again. "Are you saying you've tried to get in?"

"On several occasion, yes. They are being annoyingly vigilant. I imagine it is because I am by no means the only one trying, though most of my competitors in the Gryffindor house have already given the pursuit," Potter answered, leaning his head back and staring listlessly up to ceiling. "I will keep at it of course, they will slip eventually, but until then I fear I might die away in this despicable tedium."

"For all your cleverness, you have the attention span of a squirrel," I muttered. "I bet there is still something left for you to stick your nose in. Some teacher or student you have left to deduce."

"Sadly no," he answered. "Wizards aren't very good at hiding their affairs, I'm afraid. Of course there is much I have left to learn as far as the teachers' and student's personal lives are concerned, the more interesting ones anyway. But on the surface there is nothing interesting left."

"Really? Tell me then; what have you learned of Professor McGonagall?"

He scoffed, glancing up at me. "I'm not performer here to play tricks for your pleasure, Longbottom. If you wish to know, reason it out yourself."

"Yeah, well, I'm not as intelligent or as observant as you are," I murmured, shaking my head and returning to my work. No one really was, next to Potter.

"It is not the matter of intelligence, not entirely. Intelligence is what puts the clues together - it is your eyes and your instincts that are meant to notice the clues themselves, and with training most people should know how to do it," he muttered and gave me a considering look. Then he sighed, and slumped down again. "Ah, what use it would be to teach to you? All it would change would be that then we'd be utterly bored together, and it is not a pain I'd wish upon anyone."

"Surprisingly kind of you," I answered, giving him a glance. "Could you really teach it?"

"You have eyes, don't you, Longbottom? And you're not a complete fool. I suspect you could never attain a full mastery, but I suspect you could see…."

"Not a complete fool. High praise," I snorted and closed my books. Apparently there was no reading when he was bored. "Is there nothing you could do that would lift your mood? You're starting to depress me too."

"My most sincerest apologies," he answered without much honest emotion. Then he lifted his head. "Well, I suppose I have yet to find a suitable location for playing, as it is. You can't practice finer arts in the Slytherin dormitories or common rooms, not with the other occupants being so nosy and hypercritical - and for any matter, I don't care for audiences. A suitable room somewhere in the castle where a privacy could be attained, that… would be something."

"Play? Play what, cards?" I asked, confused.

"No, of course not. Music, Longbottom, a place where I could play music in peace," he said, but didn't bother to get up. "But do finish your homework. There is, sadly, no hurry."

"Alright," I answered, though I rather doubted I would get much work done. I was right - soon enough Potter was again heaving one of his put-upon sighs, like unwilling to let his tedium pass without letting the whole world around him know how much it bothered him. Sighing, I reached for a rag to clean my quill. I could do my homework in the Hufflepuff basements, later. "So, where do you want to start?" I asked, while putting my writing equipment away.

"The fourth corridor in east side of the second floor, with the statue of the two tailed ox," he answered, springing to his feet before I finished putting my books away. With a shake of my head, I hurried after him, wondering when it had turned into commonplace for me to follow him.

I wasn't the only one wondering, it turned out. Just as we were passing the library entrance, Justin was stepping out with couple of other Hufflepuff boys from our year. "Neville?" he asked, with wide eyes as I limped awkwardly after potter. "Where are you going?"

"To look for a empty room for some reason," I answered as I passed him by. "I'll catch up with you later."

They were left behind looking confused and I imagined already then that I would have some questions waiting for me when I would return to the Hufflepuff basements. Slytherins were notoriously withdrawing after all and did not as a rule interact with students of other houses except when they absolutely must. And Harry Potter in particular was getting the reputation of being especially difficult person to get on with.

But that had to wait, I mused, as I hurried after my strange companion to find empty, private room for him. As we went, I found myself wondering when he had learned to play and what was it that he played? Something hand held, I knew immediately, something he could carry with him in his trunk because I rather doubted Hogwarts had musical instruments of it's own. A flute, perhaps?

The search of the room was both done quickly and prolonged unnecessarily. I followed potter from empty room to another, peaking into storages and broom closes and countless of empty classrooms. "You have to wonder when ever was Hogwarts so big that all of these rooms were in use," I mused, as I watched Potter scouring through yet another classroom of abandoned desks and broken chairs.

"In the eighteen hundreds," he answered, opening a window and peering out. "Shortly after the Statue of Secrecy was put in place, there was a surplus of people with no place to go, having been driven out of their home by the secrecy clause. The great expansion it was called, when Hogwarts was enlargened to fit all the people. It was never returned to it's original state since, and so about half of the castle is now nothing but unused space."

"Oh," I answered. Had we learned that in the History of Magic lessons? Most likely not. "Potter, we've been through at least a dozen classrooms already. Wasn't any of those rooms suitable - what are you looking for exactly?"

"Nothing in particular, and I already found suitable room, several in fact. I just want to familiarise myself with the castle as best as I can," he answered. "You have to wonder why haven't they thought of refurbishing some of these rooms and renting them out as apartments. It's a prime location and Hogsmeade, as I've understood, has a surplus of people with no regular place to stay…"

"Are you saying I've been jogging after you for no particular reason?" I asked, scowling slightly.

"Well, not for no particular reason. You've learned quite bit about the castle, haven't you?" he asked, examining the window sill and then walking around the room. "It might be that in future I will need rooms for other things than just for playing my violin."

xx

So, I wrote a bit more to this. I had this thought in my head that I would write the first year at least, I had some interesting ideas. In case I still somehow manage to continue this, I won't spoil any of it, but I who knows if I will. I have a bit of a situation going on in my RL and it's gotten me a bit... distracted. I still liked some of the things I managed to write so far, like Sherlock!Harry's opinnions of Snape, the Baker Street Irregulars re-realised through young Hogwarts House Elves, and so forth, so I figured I might as well share now.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	39. Side of the moon

Warnings; Nothing really. General lack of plot maybe. Lost-colony story, or a small piece of it anyway.

**Side of the moon**

When Harry woke up, it was quiet. He blessed that for a moment because his head was pounding and his spine felt like someone had twisted it into knots and _any_ sound right then would've been like knife tearing through his nervous system at least. The silence surrounded him like a thick muffling blanked and he clutched onto it desperately, wishing for the world to go away - hopefully taking his head ache with it. Or maybe his life, right then he didn't really care.

But something was wrong, and the silence was just a proof of that. It wasn't supposed to be quiet - there was supposed to be noise. Some kind of noise - breathing of other people, maybe sound of water going, talking… something. And what's more, he could feel something biting into his cheek - and it felt too much like hay for his comfort.

The light nearly blinded him at first when he opened his eyes, but he forced himself to keep his eyes as open as he could, blinking them rapidly until the spots cleared. He was lying surrounded by green - no, he was lying in high hay, green and vibrant and _wrong._ He was supposed to be lying on a bed. Or, at most, he was supposed to be on a sofa or on an armchair, after having fallen asleep while doing his homework or something of the sort. And for that matter, there was no high grass like this anywhere near Hogwarts.

Was he at the Burrow?

Grunting softly, Harry forced himself up, first to his knees where he stopped as the world spun nauseatingly around him. Taking a moment to breathe in and out, he frowned at himself, at his knees. He was wearing robes - black ones. With the Hogwarts crest - his school robes, obviously. Which was weird - if he was at Burrow, he wouldn't have been wearing his school uniform. He would've been wearing jeans and jumper, at worst case his green casual robes, or maybe the grey ones. Not his uniform.

Shaking his head at the thought and figuring that he would get explanations as soon as he figured where he was and how he had gotten there, Harry pushed himself to his feet, faltering for a moment and then regaining his balance. As he looked around, he immediately figured out that this was not, couldn't be, the grounds near the Burrow. The grassy field continued as far as his eye could see on the left side - ands the sky begun where the field ended, brilliant blue and dotted with pure white clouds. The grounds around burrow - or anywhere where he had ever been - didn't have fields as big as these.

Frowning, Harry turned to look the other way. There, not far from him, the field ended and bushes broke the seemingly smooth surface of green. Then, somewhere behind the bushes, there were trees - and behind those trees, there were higher ones, older ones, thicker ones. They looked, some of them, rather like the trees of the Forbidden Forest, some of them being as thick as a car.

Maybe he was on the other side of the forbidden forest? It must end somewhere, and maybe where it ended, the field begun, and somehow Harry had ended up there? How, though? Accidental Apparition? You couldn't Apparate in Hogwarts though. Portkey then? Where could've he gotten one of those? Unless someone had planted it on him and…

Quickly Harry looked around again, this time looking not for land marks, but people. Only so many people would've liked to see him out of Hogwarts and somewhere unknown like this, and if Voldemort and his Death Eaters were behind this…

Hurriedly, Harry rummaged through his robes and pockets, until his fingers encountered the familiar shape of his wand's handle. Quickly he pulled it out, gripping the handle firmly, ready to use it in case something turned up. Voldemort was not catching him off guard, not this time.

A moment passed, and nothing happened. The silence was broken by a stray breath of wind that made the high grass rustle slightly. Fidgeting slightly, Harry eyed the field nervously, waiting for something and, when it didn't turn up, only getting tenser. What was the purpose of uprooting him from Hogwarts and dropping him here if it wasn't to kill him?

Well, whatever was the reason, and whoever had done it, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of finding him exactly where they wanted to find him. Turning, he faced the forest again. If it was the Forbidden forest, then maybe he could find a centaur or something who could show him the way back to the school. Nodding determinately at that plan, Harry stepped ahead - and very nearly stepped onto another person, lying on the grass.

"What the…?" he muttered, and then kneeled down quickly, worried it would be Ron or Hermione - taken with him because they were his friends no doubt. Except… it was neither. It was an elder boy, a Hufflepuff judging by his robes. "Hey," Harry murmured, shaking the elder wizard's shoulder. "Hey, wake up. Wake up!"

The boy moaned, turning away and curling into foetal position, lifting his hands to cradle his head. "Bloody… my head… what the hell was I drinking last night?"

Harry didn't answer, and just frowned. Why him, and some Hufflepuff he didn't even know? What was the purpose? Unless, of course, it wasn't just him and some Hufflepuff…

Quickly, the black haired teen stood up, and looked around again. Yes, he saw it now - the grass wasn't smooth at all, but dotted with holes. And as he stepped over the Hufflepuff to the nearest hole in grass, he found another person - a young Ravenclaw, probably a second year, lying unconscious just like he had been. And not far from her, a boy maybe year younger than Harry, wearing Slytherin robes. And nearly right next to him, another Hufflepuff, a girl maybe from first year…

"What the hell?" the Hufflepuff boy Harry had shaken murmured, and glancing backwards Harry saw the boy getting to his feet clumsily. Quickly the Gryffindor returned, just in time to catch the elder boy by the arm and stop him from collapsing right onto the Ravenclaw girl. "Potter?" the boy asked, looking at him. "What is going on?"

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. "I just woke up myself with hell of a headache. Watch your self - the field is full of unconscious people," he added, motioning towards the second year Ravenclaw.

"Oh," the Hufflepuff muttered, and nearly fell to his knees, looking ill. Harry kept him up forcibly, quickly draping the elder boy's arm around his shoulders for extra leverage. "F-fuck my head," the elder boy groaned. "If-if this is some sort of joke, I'm going to _kill_ the Weasley twins."

"I don't think Fred and George would do this, their jokes usually are pretty harmless," Harry answered, craning his head and looking around. How many people were there in the grass? He tried to count the gaps in the field, but there was so many of them, some of them so close together that it was hard to tell them apart. Dozen, two dozen - more? Shaking his head, he looked at the elder boy. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Danny. Danny Meadows," the boy answered, looking a little better now. Apparently his head ache was fading. "We should… we should try and wake the others," he said.

"Probably," Harry agreed, frowning. "Do you have any idea what this place is, Meadows?"

"Never seen it in my life," the boy answered and peered up to the forest. "Is that the Forbidden Forest?"

"I don't know. Could be, but it's pretty hard to tell," Harry answered, and looked around again. Still no sight of Death Eaters or Voldemort. "Okay. Let's… let's try to wake the others. Um. And try and count how many there are?" he added thoughtfully. He had a bad feeling that there was more than he could tell right now.

"And ask if anyone knows what's going on," Meadows said frowning.

"And that," Harry agreed. "Good call."

The Hufflepuff nodded, and after a moment of hesitation they moved to different directions and while Meadows kneeled down to shake the little Ravenclaw girl, Harry moved towards the Slytherin boy. The boy snapped to wakefulness without Harry needing to do more than rest his hand onto the boy's shoulder, but his reaction to the headache was worse than Meadows had. As soon as he regained awareness, the boy let out a low keen of pain, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Hey, hey, calm down," Harry hurried to soothe him. "Don't poke your eyes out, that won't help. Just give it a moment, it'll pass - it passed with me. Just, relax a bit and…"

The boy jerked lowering his hands and opening his eyes - and then squeezing them hurriedly shut again against the sunlight. "Potter?" the boy hissed. "If you hit me, I'm telling and then Snape's going to kill you. _I_ will kill you."

"I didn't do anything, just… geez, calm down," Harry said, rubbing his own forehead which throbbed with the remainder of his own head ache. "Come on, what's your name? What's the last thing you remember?"

The boy frowned, rubbing his eyes and then opening them blearily. "Jim Ward - and I was at breakfast, I think. I don't… fuck Merlin sideways, my head bleeding hurts!"

"Nice," Harry muttered grimly, thinking back. Yes, that was the last thing he remembered too, breakfast. That and dreading Umbridge's upcoming lesson because she was sure to give him another detention. "Okay, um, Ward. Just take it easy for a moment, okay? And don't wander off or anything, not before we can figure out what's going on."

"What? Why not - where are we?" The boy asked, and only then noticed the grass where he was lying. "What the _fuck_…?"

"Just… don't go anywhere," Harry said firmly, and stood up to wake the next person.

It was then that some people seemed to start waking up on their own - and he could hear soft groans and moans of pain across the field, with plenty of pained curses thrown in. not knowing what to do or who to go to first - he really couldn't have helped even if he had, not really - Harry stood there, listening and watching as people started to stagger to their feet until he saw a familiar face.

"Neville!" he called, wading over the grass and carefully going around people to get to the other Gryffindor. "Neville, are you okay?"

"Harry?" the other boy asked, squinting at him against the sunlight. "Aside from my head, I'm… I think I'm fine. Where are we, what's going on?"

"I don't know," Harry answered, shaking his head. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Uh. I was looking for my socks in the dormitory?" Neville offered, running a hand over his hair and looking down. Though he like everyone else was wearing robes, he had no shoes on - or any socks. After a moment, he crouched and picked a single sock from amidst the grass. "I guess I found one," he muttered, eying it.

"Harry? Harry!" familiar voice called out, and turning around Harry saw Hermione making her way over to them. She threw her arms around him as soon as she got close, making the book bag she had on her shoulder swing at his side. "I was so worried! Where are we? How did we get there - do you know -"

"No, Hermione, I don't know a thing," he answered, patting her shoulders and then pushing her back a bit. He repeated the question he had asked of Neville and the Slytherin boy, but she didn't know anything more than they had - only that it had been normal morning and then she had woken up on the field, shaken by another student.

"Okay, okay, right," Harry nodded and glanced around, trying to get his head around the situation. Other people were asking the same thing from the others, and he could see people who knew each other teaming up, siding with each other and finding comfort in familiarity. "Have you seen Ron? Or Ginny or Luna?" he asked, glancing at Hermione again, because it was starting to dawn him that it was probably _all_ of Hogwarts here. "Or any teachers?"

"No, no, I just… no," she answered, looking around.

Harry nodded and then raised his voice. "Are there any professors here? Has anyone seen any professors?" he called to the other students. They answered with confused looks, shakes of their head and orders to stop shouting because their heads hurt.

Someone did answer more verbally, though, as the call of, "Harry, you're here too!" came across the field. Then not only Ron, but Ginny, Fred and George, and several other Gryffindor and DA members made their way towards him. They all begun asking all at once if he knew what was going on or where they were, but Harry could only shake his head in answer.

"I have no idea, I woke up here the same as you," he answered, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He gave Neville - who was still holding his single sock - and Hermione - who was clutching onto her book bag - a look and then frowned determinately. "We need to figure out what's going on. Guys," he turned to the Gryffindors and DA members. "Could you go around, asking everyone what is the last thing they remember, if they know what is going on - or if they know this place?" he asked.

"Potter," a voice called from behind him, and turning around he saw Danny Meadows coming towards him with couple of other elder Hufflepuff. "I've already been asking. It's the same thing with everyone - last thing they remember is from around breakfast - couple were in the towers or dungeons or library, but it was around the same time for everyone."

Harry nodded and glanced at the others. "Same for you too?"

"Yeah. We were there - you were there," George nodded. "Just across the table."

"What about you, Neville? You said you were in the dormitory?" Harry asked, turning to the brown haired wizard.

"Yeah - I was late for breakfast because I couldn't find my socks," he agreed, frowning.

"And I had just ran out - I was heading to the library before the Defence class, I needed to return some books," Hermione said, glancing at her bag. "I think they're still here."

Harry nodded, concentrating. "So, whatever happened, it happened to everyone here at the same time," he muttered, looking around. "How many people do you think there are in here?"

"Dozens, easily. And all students by the looks of it," Ron muttered, peering over everyone else, being the tallest.

"I can check," a girl beside Danny said, taking out her wand. She whirled it about and then frowned, concentrating. "Two hundred and sixty nine," she said after a moment, lowering her wand.

"How did you - wait… two hundred and sixty nine - that's exactly how many students there are in Hogwarts," Hermione said, turning to Harry.

"So, that's all Hogwarts students are here," Harry muttered. "All Hogwarts students were plucked off the castle and planted here. Why? _How_? I didn't know there was magic that could just… teleport this many people out all at the same time - aside from Portkeys, and I definitely don't remember touching anything like that."

"There aren't any magic of that type, not that I know of," Danny agreed, frowning. "But everyone, all at once, and all students. Maybe it has something to do with Hogwarts wards?" he offered. "The wards can detect magic. Maybe something happened and some sort of, I don't know, automated security system transported all students to safety?"

"No, Hogwarts can't do that - there's no mention of it in the Hogwarts; a history," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"Maybe it's a new thing, Dumbledore could've easily -" Ron started, but was cut off before he could continue by a voice.

"Potter, what the hell is going on here?" Draco Malfoy demanded to know, as he stalked towards with several Slytherins at his back. "What the hell did you do this time?"

"What do you mean, what did I do?" Harry snapped back, the headache still bouncing in his scull and making him irritable.

"It's always something you do or something that has something to do with you, and so help me god -"

"Back off, Malfoy," Ron snapped.

"Yeah, we have no better idea about what is going on than you do," Hermione nodded.

"If course you have some idea," Malfoy spat back at them. "You always know these things first because you're a bunch of know it all, the lot of you - now, tell us where the hell are we, or I sweat to god I will force it out of you! I am in the Inquisitorial Squad you know, and I can -"

"Yeah, like that will happen - you and your bloody Inquisitorial Squad, I bet it was you and your dad's little pals who are behind this, so you might as well -!"

"How dare you -!"

"Shut up, shut up everyone!" Harry snapped, rubbing his temples. Around him, everyone shut up and most of them looked fairly relieved about it. Apparently loud noises were making their heads pound too. "If we're going to argue, let's do it quietly for now, okay? And no, Malfoy, I have no idea what's going on, no one does," he said. "As far as we can tell, every student in Hogwarts was transported here, where ever this is, around breakfast, and that's about all we know."

"Really?" the Slytherin asked suspiciously.

"Yes, really, and if you know anything more, feel free to share because we're all in the dark, here," Harry snapped and then took a deep calming breath while Malfoy just glared at him and the others and said nothing. "Okay. Right then," the Gryffindor said. "We need to figure where we are. Is there a spell for something like that, does anyone know? Hermione?"

"No, I'm sorry, Harry, I don't," she said, shifting awkwardly.

"Okay, seventh years," Harry said, turning to Fred and George. "Spells for figuring out where we are?" when they just shrugged their shoulders awkwardly, Harry sighed and raised his voice again. "Could all seventh years and all possibly over-learned Ravenclaws come here, please! I need some advanced spell knowledge here!"

"Stop yelling, Potter!" a witch nearby yelled. "My head hurts enough already!"

"Shut up!" someone else snapped at her.

Harry shook his head and then looked up ahead as some of the elder students started making their way towards them. "Does anyone know any spells for telling where we are, exactly? Anyone?" he asked from them hopefully.

"I already tried two," one Ravenclaw said, pushing forward with a frown on his face. "Both spells went mental when I did."

"Okay, just to be sure, anyone who knows the spells, try, please?" Harry asked

"It's obvious where we are isn't it?" Malfoy snapped. "The Forbidden Forest is just there," he pointed at the forest.

"No it isn't," Neville answered immediately.

"_What_?"

"That isn't the Forbidden Forest," Neville said, frowning. "I know the trees of the Forbidden Forest. It's made from Ashes, Elms, Willows, Oaks… mostly from Oaks and there's not single one of them among those ones. Actually," he frowned, peering at the forest. "I don't know any of those trees. Besides, it doesn't feel right at all. Doesn't anyone else feel it?"

"Yeah, it's not magical," Danny agreed.

For a moment everyone turned to stare at the non-magical forest thoughtfully, most frowning or scowling like Malfoy. After a moment, Harry shook his head and turned away. He wasn't good with trees, couldn't tell one oak from another. "The spells," he said again, turning to the elder students. "Could you try them, please?"

Frowning, a couple of them do. The spells work apparently the same way a _tempus_ works, by giving the caster the required knowledge straight into their minds, because no words appear and no one uses proxies. They all, however, frown and shake their heads. "All I get is mental equivalent of static," Angelina Johnson said, lowering her wand. "Is it true that that isn't the Forbidden Forest?" she then asked, nodding towards the forest.

"It doesn't look like it, not to me. I might be wrong, though," Neville answered.

Harry bit his lip, trying to think of something. Some way of telling where they were.

"Maybe we should try apparating?" Fred mused.

"You need to know where you are to apparate safely, don't you?" Hermione asked worriedly. "You might splinch yourself!"

"Now, how do you know that, mudblood, when you can't apparate yourself?" Malfoy asked.

"Oi, keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll make sure you don't have a tongue to keep anywhere!" Ron snapped.

"She's right, though," Angelica said, shaking her head. "Apparating without knowing where you are, that might end up badly. Some experienced apparators can do it, sure, but…" she gave an awkward look at the other elder students - most of whom had only been apparating lest than year, probably. "Maybe we should shoot sparks first - maybe someone's looking for us?"

"Good idea," Harry nodded, lifting his wand and shooting a red spark high into the air, as high as he could manage with the head ache. It burst up like a firework, glowing for a moment in the air in stack contrast of the blue sky above it before sizzling out. Nothing happened. "Okay, it will probably take a while before anything comes up. Maybe one or two of us ought to keep on sending sparks up constantly, just in case," he said, lowering his hand.

"Okay, who the hell put you in charge?" Malfoy asked, folding his arms.

"I'm not in charge, I'm just trying to figure out what is going on and how to hell we get back," Harry answered giving him a frown. "If you have any other ideas, go ahead. No one's stopping you."

The Slytherin scoffed and walked off, his posse following closely behind him. Shaking his head to dismiss him and all the trouble that came about trying to deal with him, Harry turned to the others. "Okay, aside from apparition, does anyone have any other ideas about how to figure out where we are?"

"Well, no, but I have idea about how to send messages," George said, taking out his wand. "Tonks showed us, back at Christmas hols, on how to make Patronus' carry out messages. We could try sending couple out, see what happens."

"Yes, brilliant, do it. Any other ideas?" Harry asked, and tentatively the others offered some too - sending out charmed paper planes like they did in ministry for one. As Hermione handed out pieces of parchment to those who knew how to make the charm, Fred and George waved their wands, concentrating until they managed to produce their Patroni, a fox and a magpie respectably, much to the amazement of the younger students who were starting to huddle around their group.

"It won't work," Fred said after a moment.

"They won't leave, even after we've given them the messages," George nodded, as the glowing magpie flied in circles around his head and then faded away.

"Neither will the letters," Fiona Moore, a Ravenclaw girl who had been trying to send a message, said, holding the plane she has folded. "It's like there's no one to go to, no place to go to - I did some experiments when I learned this spell, and trying to send a message to the moon or to mythical continent of Mu have the same effect - you might get it started, but the spell won't take off."

"What does that even mean?" Ron asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Fred snapped

"Well, there are any number of reasons why a spell won't work, even after you've managed to produce it correctly. If there's interference or some sort of dampening effect - like with Hogwarts, people not being able to Apparate there? You can perform the magic all you want but the wards won't let it happen, this could be like that," Moore offered.

"Okay, maybe we're in some sort of… anti-communication bubble," Harry muttered.

"Rather like anti-apparition ward, yes. But who would do that?" Hermione asked. "Why would they do that?"

"If it's You Know Who who's behind this, then of course he would," Ron muttered.

"You really believe he's back, then?" the Ravenclaw asked sharply.

"We _know_ he's back, never mind what the Ministry is trying to say. He _is_ back," Hermione answered. "But why are the Slytherin students here, then? He wouldn't kidnap Draco Malfoy, or Grabbe and Goyle, they're the children of his -"

"Harry," a soft, serene voice called for his attention from the side, and glancing towards the source of it, Harry saw Luna standing a little distance away from the main group. She was holding a delicate blue flower in her hands, smiling faintly. "I would like to direct your attention to the east side of the sky, if you would," she said, and pointed.

He did, and then he stared in wordless wonder. "…bloody hell," Harry muttered, and as he did, the others looked up as well.

From just the corner of the field, where it ended and the forest begun, a moon was rising. Except, it wasn't. It was faintly blue and green with specks of white here and there - and, judging by the sliver it which was all they could see yet, it was also some thirty times bigger than the moon Harry knew.

"What _is_ that?" Ron asked, after a long moment of quiet.

"Trouble," Harry answered dully and for a long moment everyone was quiet

"Okay, that is not possible. How is that possible?" Fred asked, after they had watched good five minutes in silence how the strange, enormous moon rose from the end of the field. Even when they could only see a quarter of it, it looked enormous, too big to comprehend, and it kept on its steady rise, now showing a sharp corner where the dark side of it begun and the light side ended.

Harry shook his head. He had no idea, and as it was his mind had trouble grasping what he saw, even trying to figure out how or why it was possible. All the things he had seen in the magical world, monsters and time travel and all, this did not simply compute.

"It's an illusion, it has to be an illusion," someone said, and whispers broke out as everyone tried to come up with a reasonable, logical explanation. Illusions and group hallucinations were offered - someone even suggested that somehow the whole school had gotten stuck in the Room or Requirement which was following someone's insane dream or something - but none of it did anything to change what they were seeing. None of it stopped the enormous alien moon from rising , not even the ones who were trying _finite incantatems_ to end the supposed illusion.

"Hey," a cautious voice asked at Harry's side, bringing him out of his slight stupor. It was a young student in Hufflepuff clothing, a second or first year judging by the size of her. "Tina isn't feeling too well," she said nervously, glancing between Harry and group of younger students who sat huddled around another Hufflepuff girl, who was rocking slightly with her head between her knees.

For a moment Harry just stared, dull minded, not sure why she came to him. Then he shook himself free, and glanced at the elder students. "Keep trying," he said to them, not entirely sure if he was talking about trying to end the so called illusion or send out a message - it didn't really matter because no one was listening anymore. Shaking his head, he turned and followed the nervous girl to the group of younger students, who looked up hopefully.

"Okay, what's wrong?" Harry asked, crouching down in front of the sickly looking girl. "Tina, right? Tina, what's wrong? Is your head still hurting?"

The slightly plumb brunette girl looked up, her eyes slightly red and blurry with suppressed tears. "It's… it's not my head, it's my stomach," she admitted, swallowing and sniffling. "It really, really hurts."

Harry frowned slightly at that. He was pretty sure that whatever it was, there was little he could do about it - he was no healer - but the girls had came to him, obviously thinking he could do something. And they were all looking so worried, so frightened, that he couldn't just shrug his shoulders, and instead picked through his memories, trying to remember when ever he had had a stomach ache and what might've caused it. Back before Hogwarts, at Dursleys it had been pretty common. Mostly because he had never had enough to eat.

"Okay, Tina. When is the last time you ate something? The last time you drank?" he asked.

She frowned, her the corners of her mouth turning down. Then she shook her head, looking down and drawing a shuddery breath. "Y-yesterday morning?" she offered awkwardly. "Some… some of the others were… they said I was, that I was fat, and I…" she sniffed and buried her face into her knees.

"Shit," Harry muttered, quickly checking his pockets. Sometimes when late from breakfast he, like just about all other boys in the school, would stuff a pastry or something into his pocket for later, if he had one now that probably wouldn't fix the problem, but would help. However, he had nothing this time, just some pits of paper, a broken quill and his wand. "Alright, Tina, sit tight, okay? I'll be right back," he said, and stood up. "Ron!"

"Yeah, what?" the redhead asked, looking down from the rising moon.

"You have anything to eat with you? There's a firstie here who hadn't eaten since yesterday morning and she's getting hunger pains," Harry said, approaching the group of elder students.

"Wait, food," someone snapped in the back, and glancing towards the voice Harry saw another elder Gryffindor pushing forward. "If we're… Well, where the hell we are, we need food. I mean, if that's what it is," he motioned wildly at the moon, "And if this is not Earth, then it's not like we can just pop down at the kitchens or wait until dinner - there won't be dinner. We need all the food we have, and more."

"Not Earth?" someone asked, scoffing.

"Well, just look at that thing! Does it look like the good old moon to you? No, it doesn't! If I didn't know any better, I'd say that was a planet. Great big whopping alien planet!"

"But how is that - it's _not_, it really is not possible. There is no magic in the world that could transport a person to another world -" Hermione started, and from there the argument got into full swing, with most trying to deny what they were seeing, and others trying to move pass it.

Harry shook his head at all of them, and tugged at Ron's sleeve. "Food," he said. "Do you have any?"

"I think I have a muffin or something," Ron agreed, rummaging through his pockets and then producing a slightly squished muffin from one of them. "Hah!" he said with triumph and handed it over. "Here you go."

"Thanks," Harry nodded, turning to the first years to take the small bit of food to them, when a hand closed around his bicep.

"Wait a bit, Potter," the Gryffindor who had been first to admit the possibility of them not being on earth anymore. "Where do you think you're taking that? If we're here all by ourselves, then whatever food we have we need to share, even something like that. You can't just -"

"I am taking it to the poor little girl over there who has been starving herself since yesterday because some people picked her on because of her weight," Harry snapped back. "Because she's having hunger pains. "

"Oh," the elder boy said, looking a bit awkward. "Well. We still need to preserve food, share it, ration it. It's just common sense."

"Well, right now that little girl needs it more than the rest of you - but if you have any ideas about how to ration and share and preserve a single muffin, I'm all ears," Harry said, holding the muffin up. It wasn't exactly big or anything. "Because this thing is not exactly a entire storage of food, you know? As it is it isn't enough even for that little girl."

"Well it could be," Hermione said, snatching the muffin from Harry's hands. "Can someone transfigure a container for me - something big, a bowl, several of them?"

Confused, couple of the elder students did, picking up rocks and pebbles from the ground and turning them into stone bowls. "That's great," Hermione nodded, and then proceeded to break the muffin apart into the bowls, about quarter each, while the others frowned at her, especially Harry who had no idea what she was on about. Then she pulled out her wand. "Okay, now we expand it as far as it will go. _Engorgio_!"

"Oh, you genius," Harry breathed, as the crumbs turned into a half a bowl of crumbs.

"Well, there's a limit to it," Hermione admitted, while couple of the elder students quickly did the same in the other bowls. "You can't expand food like this indefinitely and it will go bad at the same rate as the original, but it'll do in a pinch."

"This is no where near enough for anyone," someone said.

"Well, I can't be the only one who gets peckish in class," Ron said, and then looked over the rest of them. "Okay, does anyone else have any snacks with them? Come on, people!"

"Harry, here," Hermione said, turning to him and handing over the bowl she had engorged. "Take this to the girl."

"She probably needs water too, I don't suppose you could have a neat little magical solution or that?" Harry asked hopefully.

"There's Aguamenti, it's a spell that produces a jet of water, but that won't help anyone, not before we find a water source. The spell works by siphoning, so without that, it doesn't work," Fiona Moore said, crouching down. "Not unless someone has water with them - we could expand that too, a bit, but not as much as the food."

"Ask around," Harry said, taking the bowl and standing up. "I'll take these."

He took the stone bowl to the first years, telling them to eat sparingly and share, while elsewhere the others were gathering whatever snacks people had with them. "Eat slowly," he said to Tina. "Savour it, moisten it in your mouth. That will soothe your stomach quicker than eating it dry and quick. Okay?

"Alright. Thank you," she nodded and with an encouraging smile he stood and returned to the others.

"So," he said, as he approached the others. "We have food and still no idea where we are. Right?" he asked, crouching down beside Hermione.

"That's about it," she admitted, shielding her eyes against the sun as she eyed the moon which was now half up - half full, and even more enormous than Harry had thought at the first sight. "Though at least it seems like the headaches are going away, so that's something."

"And no one's location and message charms haven't worked?" Harry asked, glancing at the others.

"Nope," George nodded, dropping to sit down among the grass, running ha hand over his face. "You think we're really in another world?" he asked then, glancing between Harry and Hermione.

"Well, it doesn't seem like an illusion. Everything seems real. Including that," Hermione said, motioning at the moon. She sighed. "I just don't understand how it is possible. How we can go from being Hogwarts one moment and then coming here, ending up here. How, why?"

Harry didn't answer, just eyed the moon quietly for a long moment. Then he glanced up, looking for the elder Gryffindor who had brought up the food issue. "You, hey. What's your name?" he called, making the boy look up from one of the bowls he had been filling with the expanded crumbs of a cauldron cake.

"Matlock," the boy said. "Why?"

"You brought up the whole food thing. You were kind of… well, it was good," Harry shook his head. The bloke had been bit of a git about it, but it was valid point. "How much food do you think we have - how long will it last?"

"With two hundred and sixty people here? This will last us one fifth of a meal," Matlock answered with a scoff, motioning at the transfigured bowls. "Probably not even that. If this is all we have, we're going to be starving by the end of the day."

"With water we'd last longer," Fiona noted, crouching down as well. "A person can handle days without food if they have water - it won't be comfortable, but we'd survive."

"This is ridiculous," someone muttered. "We're not going to have to live on water for days - we'll just get back to where we came from and we'll have all the food we need -"

"Yeah, well, and how will we get there?" Fred snapped.

"If you weren't too much of a coward to try and apparate then -"

"If think that apparating is the way to go, then why don't you try it?"

"Okay, okay, calm down" Harry snapped at them, glancing between Fred and the Ravenclaw boy. "No one's apparating - not without any definite knowledge that they won't be splinching themselves. We have no one here who can put us together if we break apart like that. Okay?"

"Fine," the Ravenclaw muttered.

"Right. So, assuming that we're alone here, and that this is some another world where we've ended up for Merlin knows what reason… We need to figure things out," Harry started, standing up and looking around. "We have next to no food, we have no water, we have no idea what we're going to do and, probably, we also have no where to go. So. First things first. Water and food."

"And fire, shelter and security," Hermione added and shrugged her shoulder. "Cornerstones of survival. Water, food, shelter, fire and security. Shelter, fire and security are just as important, maybe even more so, than food and water. We don't know what the time it is here, or when it will get dark - or what the night here is like. It might be cold, it might be full of, I don't know, flesh eating rats."

"Thanks, Hermione, that's just we need, everyone panicked about flesh eating rats," George snorted.

"She has a point though. Shelter will be difficult though, with so many here. Are there any spells that might help?" Harry asked. "Any spells to make some tents or something?"

"We could probably engorge our robes, make something from them. We'd need frames and such, to set them on," Hermione said. "Beds will be more difficult. Maybe we could make something from the hay…" she trailed away, scratching her head as she eyed the grass around them.

"Okay, you work on that," Harry nodded. "I'm going to look around, see if I can find some water. I need someone to come with me - and if anyone knows how to make some bottles or buckets or something, that would be helpful. And that spell, Aguamenti. You need to know a source of water, right? So I need someone who knows that spell with me too."

"I'll come with you - I know the spell," Matlock said, standing up.

"I'll come too. I might be able to tell if there are any edible plants and stuff like that," Neville agreed. "Who knows, maybe we'll find some wild vegetables."

"That would be great. Anyone else?" Harry asked, and got some few more volunteers.

xx

I have a fondness towards lost-colony type of stories. Lost colony, post-apocalyptic, and the general idea of having a group of people and forcing them to try and survive way, way out of their usual element. Stargate Atlantis, Jericho, the Colony, Dies the Fire... Anyway.

With this I had the thought of "let's take Hogwarts students and throw them into some random empty planet, and then force them try and survive." Them having to figure out things like finding food, shelter, having to generally survive without any comforts they're used to, who's the leader and how hierarchy would work, the conflicts that would arise between different types of people... I thought it could be fun. This was probably a Stargate Crossover, but who knows.

Of course, I got bored with the idea - I suppose having just the lost-colony concept isn't enough, because I got bored with this pretty quickly too. I should've had more conflict, something interesting. SGA has the ancient technology and Wraith, Jericho has the whole getting nuked thing and trying to get technology going again, the Colony has the whole scavenger thing, and so forth. Maybe next time I will try and writing a post-apocalyptic-post-magic Harry Potter story set on Earth, with people losing their magic and then trying to scavenge what remains of theirs and the muggles' society in order to make do. That could be interesting.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	40. Whispers in corners, HP x SH cross

Warnings; Lots of dead people, and kinda weird-ish Harry. Crossover between Harry Potter and BBC's Sherlock.

**Whispers in corners**

It is unnecessary to visit the scenes. They bring him there anyway, and he lets them because it helps cement the shroud of mystery surrounding his so called ability. Can't be too obvious, even with occultism – if it is too precise, too easily accessed, they would grow suspicious. Or so he imagines anyway. Suspicious, or greedy. He can't have either, because both greed and suspicion breed trouble – questions and curiosity and in worse case, investigation. So he takes the offered vagueness and makes it seem like a necessity, like a rule.

"What is your husband's name?" Harry asks, eying the room. It seems normal – your average bedroom; bed big enough for two, decorated sparsely with closets and a drawer, two small beside tables at each side of the bed. Bland curtains, no portraits or paintings – pictures on top of the drawer, on beside tables. Children and grandchildren. People have certainly died in worse places.

"David," the woman – Edna Wilkins, elderly woman with white hair and beige shirt, bony hands and a wedding ring she keeps fiddling – says, while wringing her hands and looking around. There is sheen of moistness in her eyes, like she expects to cry any moment and is getting ready for it. Probably is too. "David Timothy Wilkins."

"David," Harry murmurs. He feels a moment of self doubt - should he speak the name slow and thoughtful like scenting it out, tasting the syllables? Again unnecessary, complete and pure theatrics. But it was expected – and would have been yet another way to strengthen the mysticism. The wizard he had been would've laughed himself sore, witnessing it. But then, the whole scene would've made that young soon-to-be-Auror laugh.

"Right," Harry says again and then tugs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. The ring is heavy and bulky but it slips into his middle finger with practiced ease, almost jumping in. Probably is too – all the Hallows are like that, they delight in being used. The Wand in particular, but the ring is certainly not far behind, always eager to slip around his finger. Not all the way, though, just past the first joint, that's far enough and easy as anything to remove.

The wizard rubs the cracked stone gently with his thumb in the cover of his pocket ready, to turn it. Letting his fingers stop, thump ready, he looks at the old woman. "Are you ready, Mrs. Wilkins?" he asks gently and when she hesitates, tugging at her wedding band like it was burning her, he smiles kindly. "How much do you know of my… methods?"

"I… I heard that you can talk to them, and that it is… it is real, but that is it," she says, and brings her shaking fingers up, to touch her lips and then quickly withdrawing, like wishing to cover her mouth, but not at the same time. Nervous twitches, Harry is getting used to seeing those. "Will… will I _see_ him?"

"No. And I'm afraid you won't be able to hear or sense him in any way. He won't possess me or anything like that either, so he won't be speaking through me," Harry adds, because people expect that. Unless he warns them they look at him, expecting to see familiar gestures and postures and he can't deliver. "He will come here, and I can talk to him and I can tell you what he is saying. I will be, in a way, working as translator between two of you."

"Oh. Okay," Mrs. Wilkins says and frowns, giving him a glance that has a hint of suspicion in it. He doesn't work in the so called self explanatory forms of a medium or mystic, he knows, but there is only so much of stupid pretence he can manage. He won't ooh and aah and make dramatic gestures and speeches about reaching out to touch the beyond, and though it would've been beneficial, he won't bolster up his act with eerie voices and hands thrown up, eyes spinning backwards. He does still have a sense of self respect, after all.

"I will call him now," Harry says, because if he gives it time she will ask more questions and he's not there to explain to her the intricacies of necromancy. Not that he could, even if she had asked. So instead he smiles, closes his eyes and thinks of the name, _David Timothy Wilkins_, keeping in mind Edna Wilkins, the apartment, the house, willing forth the right spirit – so many dead share names, they get confused unless he is specific.

The Gaunt ring with its cracked Stone of Resurrection turns in his finger easily and silently. Once, twice, three times in total.

When Harry opens his eyes, there are three people in the room. David Wilkins is an old man – dead for about two months, according to his wife, grey haired with a moustache and milky blue eyes according to the photograph she had shown Harry. The spirit looks young, though – a handsome dark haired man in his twenties, in fact, with horrible haircut and not a hair on his face, wearing the uniform of the fireman. Probably had been in his life – people often identify themselves by their duties, dead especially.

"Oh, you silly little nag," Mr. Wilkins says to his wife fondly, and Harry smiles. The man seems exasperated but not angry. It's good to summon the sort of dead who weren't too cross with him for doing it.

"He's here, Mrs. Wilkins," Harry says, indicating the spot where the young-old dead man stands, with his helmet tugged beneath his arm, smudge of sooth on his cheek. "And he's calling you a silly little nag," Harry adds, because the truth is in details, echo of supernatural reality in details.

Edna Wilkins gasps loudly, her shaking hands coming up quickly and covering her mouth as the tears spill down her wrinkled cheeks. "Oh, _Davey_."

As he begins to intermediate the exchange of platitudes and last good byes between the separated couple, Harry knows he will get well paid for this particular job.

It's a testament to his new life that he doesn't even find it wrong or disgusting to ask for that payment anymore.

x

He lives in a small apartment above a noisy pub, with single room and kitchenette and barely no bathroom to speak of. Being a medium pays well, but only when he finds the right customer. And since he doesn't go out looking and the amount of people who know about him is small and limited it's a rare day he gets a good customer.

Harry doesn't mind, though. Being medium is new for him, new and rare and strange and he doesn't yet know what is and isn't safe to do. He doesn't really need that much either. He has a roof atop his head and after some spells the flat is clean of rats and roaches and all other pests. It takes some delicate transfiguration to make the mattress usable, and the kitchenette more functional, but he doesn't mind. It gives him something to do, in between.

And there is a lot of in between. It would've been easier if there hadn't been – if he had managed to settle himself down to actual job instead of the one he had somehow gotten for himself. But he had tried. Working construction wasn't for him – too skinny, not to mention that most of the time he had no idea what to do, no concept of what went where or why. Assisting at a shop had been easier, but not that good either. He was a bit awkward with customers and with eleven year old's maths – and no practice at it since – he is not good at counting, not at all. And everything else since was just one failure after another.

As far as honest legal jobs go, he is useless. And the rare few he might be some good at, he doesn't want to try. Gardening, house keeping, cleaning… he has had enough of all of that for a lifetime and will not resort to any of it, not unless there is absolutely no other choice. Too many bad memories.

Not that any of them matter much here.

It had started by accident, the medium thing. Harry had been looking for a place to stay, meeting some people renting out cheapest flats in London. Poor, worse, bad. Then he ran into Oliver Fergusson, middle aged man with shifty eyes who kept looking around the flat he was showing like expecting it to attack him – giving especially nervous looks towards one spot where carpet covered the wooden floor. It had made Harry curious, and when the man left Harry alone to answer the phone, the wizard pulled the carpet off, to reveal nothing at first, and then finding brown smears between floorboards. Dried blood.

The Stone of Resurrection found its way to his finger almost by itself, but Harry had been too curious, too bored, to not do it. He hadn't known he could summon people he himself had no personal connection to, not until that point. Not needing a name is a new thing too, a surprising one. But as he thought of the stain and the flat, wanting to know who had died there, the dead appeared. Young woman in her twenties, beautiful.

"I was a drug addict," she explained to him without a shred shame or worry, standing on the carpet hiding the spot where she had died. "I ran out, and people do some stupid things when they're in need. I ate all meds I had, washed it down with all the alcohol I had and in the insanity that followed, I stabbed myself six times. Thought there was something in my chest, something moving. Not my proudest moment, I know, but way to go is a way to go."

"Ah," Harry said, and tilted his head. He asked a couple of curious questions, learning her name and what she had done for living and that she wasn't bitter about life, not anymore. She preferred death – the urges were gone, the bitterness of not knowing the future, of not having a direction, all needless things. Death was more peaceful.

Harry didn't take the apartment, and as he left he clapped Mr Fergusson on his shoulder. "Don't worry. Annie isn't around anymore – she prefers the Afterlife." And as the man stared at him with wide, borderline terrified eyes unable to say a thing, Harry slipped out, thinking about the Stone and summoning the dead and mostly about looking through the papers for another apartment. By the end of the day, he had forgotten Oliver Fergusson completely.

Two days later, Fergusson somehow tracked him down. A call waited for him when he came down from his room in the cheap bed-sit, from the landlord. Fergusson was nervous and twitchy on the phone, but also oddly excited. "If you don't have… if it was just possible, I… there is this woman. Her daughter died recently. If you could…"

Harry went out more because of curiosity than anything else. It turned out that Mr Fergusson's friend, Sofia Gilmore, had a delinquent daughter, Tina, who had stolen all her jewellery and money and ran away with it. Tina had been found dead – car crash – couple of days later, but no one found the money or the jewellery she had taken. Harry didn't wonder why Tina ran away after meeting Mrs. Gilmore – she was a cold eyed, stiff faced woman with permanent sneer on her face and a deep rooted loathing towards her daughter.

Harry had, however, done as she asked, and summoned Tina to the woman's kitchen. Tina came to him not as the sixteen year old she had been, but as a eight year old girl in torn jeans and mud stained blouse, grinning widely with gap in her teeth. Mrs. Gilmore's sneer got only wider and sharper as Harry kneeled by her child-teenager daughter, but Harry hadn't much cared.

"I put it in a secret place. I didn't need it all, but Mum didn't deserve any of it. They were my Grandma's, you know, and she was real nice. Mum though, she's no good at all," the little girl said, leaning to Harry's side and giving her mother sideways looks. "But I don't really care anymore."

"Money means nothing in the Afterlife," Harry agreed, ignoring the look the older Gilmore was giving him and wrapping his arm compassionately around the spirit. "Where did you put it?"

Tina smiled. "I gave half of it away – the money – to my friends who needed it. The jewels, though. Those I hid." It took some coaxing to get her to reveal the location, and she wasn't too happy knowing that Harry was about to tell it all to the mother she didn't like too much, but like all spirits she was disconnected from material needs and it is the principle than the jewellery itself that make her cross with him.

"You will find the jewellery in your neighbour's pond," Harry said after Tina left. "Tina wrapped them in plastic bag – there's a branch in the side of the pond, with cord connecting it to the bag. The money is gone, though."

Mrs. Gilmore didn't thank him and called him a charlatan, but Harry got twenty pounds for his troubles. It wasn't exactly lot and by the look Mr. Fergusson gave the woman he at least had expected more, but Harry thanked the woman nonetheless. He was at that point getting very short on money and really, he hadn't lost anything in the process or needed to put much of an effort to it either. He considered it a fair deal, in fact.

After that, the word somehow spread. Mrs. Gilmore and her case became not an oddity that Harry had humoured just this once, but just first of many. In the beginning when he got a customer per week and barely got paid for it, Harry didn't take any of it seriously, though. He used it as a way to kill time in between hunting for apartment and having absolutely nothing to do – and the boy he had been was satisfied with the thought of helping people move on and make their last goodbyes or whatever it was they wanted when they asked him to summon this or that dead loved one. But it was more entertainment than work then.

It had became more – privilege, work, duty – when a distraught father came to him, having heard of him through the grapevine and having no other place to go. Tom Andrews was wealthy single father of a six year old boy, desperate for answers after police had given up on the boy. "They say he was kidnapped," the man told him, wringing the knees of his neat suit in a desperate grip. "But there was no ransom note, no word, nothing. It has been four months now."

Harry nodded and without further ado – without realising that he should have taken his time to prepare the man – tried and instantly managed to summon young Eddy Andrews. "Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy!" the boy cried, trying to jump into his father's lap without completely realising that his father couldn't see him, and that he himself wasn't really there.

The entire event was miserable. Mr. Andrews broke apart in front of Harry, and Harry couldn't get Eddy to understand what was going on. Very little answers were discovered either – Eddy had no idea what happened to him, just that he had been walking along the road one moment, and soon after he was meeting his mother in the nice, golden place. Eddy babbled about Mrs. Lorelai Andrews happily most of the meeting, while Mr. Andrews wept, first with grief and horror and then disbelieving joy, as Harry tried to translate Eddy's babble into something coherent.

"Thank you. Thank you," Mr. Andrews sobbed, after two hours had gone by and Harry had also summoned his wife and grandfather out of sympathy, and spent the time trying to intermediate the utterly bizarre family meeting. The wife and the grandfather had more answers than the excitable son, and between them they had figured out that the sudden death was most likely due to a car Eddy had heard coming. Harry was paid thousand pounds for the whole thing, and after Mr. Andrews left, still sobbing, the wizard was thanked by Mrs. Andrews and Mr. Andrews the senior. Eddy kissed his cheek, before three of them returned to the golden place.

Couple of days later, Harry read from the newspaper that Edward Andrews had been found, buried in a shallow grave in a park near his school – it looked like he had been hit with a car, according to the papers, and though they were still looking for the driver, Mr. Andrews, the grieving father, finally had his answers. Harry went to the funeral and offered the grieving father a smile, which the man answered through his tears.

After that, Harry had stopped looking for other jobs, and settled into the form of being a just medium - or a psychic, which is also what people call him. As far as employment went, it was bad. Customers were rare and not all of them could pay well, and some weren't too satisfied when the dead simply refuse to talk with their living loved ones. It barely paid the bills in the beginning and the money hadn't been really worth the looks he got in the neighbourhood where he finally found his small flat. Those had only gotten worse since.

But it is hundred times better than some of the alternatives and even while his magic would make him exceptionally good and successful thief or a burglar, it is simply not within Harry to go down that road. Being a medium is rather ridiculous – and he is cheating every step of the way. Anyone could've done it with the Ring after all. But still. It's _something_.

Sometimes it's even the good type of something.

x

The payment from summoning David Wilkins lasts him for couple of weeks, paying the bills for the previous and the following month. Harry's learned to pay ahead rather than after, because while he can do food, clothing and most all other necessities almost out of thin air, he can't do a house or a flat if he's kicked out. And he has come close to that a couple of times.

But eventually the money runs out, it always does, and for a while no job seems forthcoming. Of course there are the random people in the neighbourhood who have heard of his talent, and pay him some handful of pounds for some minutes with their dead fathers and mothers, cousins and ex-lovers, but that isn't enough to pay the rent or the water bill. He still has time, of course, but he prefers to have a little bit of extra, rather than nothing at all. Insurance, one could call it, and Harry is learning to be somewhat suspicious of how well or badly things might turn out. Testament of living in a poor neighbourhood.

When the job comes, it comes through the usual avenues, but in fairly unusual way. The pub downstairs holds a message for him, which the manager hands to him when he's passing through in order to head out. "Neat looking girl, expensive suit and nails and all," she says, as Harry unfolds the note. "Should pay well, d'ya reckon?"

The wizard smiles. She is nice to him because he pays his bills something like on time, but he knows aside from that, she can barely stand him. She's superstitious, even more so now, having met him.

"Maybe," Harry answers and then concentrates onto the paper. People leave him notes all the time – phone numbers, meeting places and sometimes names, business cards. This one is different. It is a photocopy a driver's licence of one George Dawson, and nothing more.

"Interesting," Harry says, smiles to his landlady, and then heads back up and to his little flat again. He knows a challenge when he sees one, and George Dawson seems like a challenge. After closing and locking the door, he places the paper to the middle of the cheap coffee table, and then pushes his hands into his pockets. The Ring, as always, slips to his finger smoothly and turns with ease.

He ends up summoning nearly ten different George Dawsons in the first try. He hadn't gotten a good enough look at the picture, it seems. It's always difficult like that, when going with name and nothing more. Frowning, Harry dismisses them all gently, before looking at the photocopy again. George Dawson, born in nineteen eighties. Young man, stoic faced in the picture, wearing clumsy pair of glasses. He really should've learned to pay more attention to pictures by now, Harry admonishes himself and then looks up again.

George Dawson, the one he actually wants, is a young man in a cheap suit with mousy brown hair and forlorn look about his face. "Figures," he says and falls to sit in Harry's cheap armchair. "Just figures."

"I guess," Harry answers, not really knowing what figures, but figuring that he'll find out soon enough. He picks the photocopy again and turns it around. The backside is blank. He'll use that.

"So, what do they want to know?" Mr. Dawson asks, frowning at him. "Did I give anything away, did I betray them? You'd think a bloke would be free from all this bollocks after death, you know?"

"We'll keep it short and then you can go back," Harry promises and sits down with the copy paper and a pen. "Why don't you tell me everything?"

Mr. Dawson gives him a look. "No specific thing, then? You don't know what they want either? Figures," he sighs, and then begins to rattle out his life story with practiced, bored ease of someone who has had to do weird tasks for a long while. He doesn't even seem surprised or annoyed at being summoned, just exasperated, and his attitude makes Harry even more curious. Dead know more than the living, but people usually tend to be at least a little surprised.

Gregory Dawson was born in Birmingham and he had studied computer sciences. He graduated a little bit early and then had gotten hired by the government thanks to having good memory and eye for details. He mostly worked with the CCTV network, maintaining and debugging the system. He worked for a man he called _that smarmy bastard_, though he still isn't sure what the man's actual name had been. His job had been boring. Up until the point he had recorded, analysed and forwarded a file about couple of politicians talking with couple of foreigners, and then found himself with bullet in his head.

"Sniper," Mr. Dawson says, making a shooting motion with his hand. "Right through the head when I was kicking back at home, watching telly. Never saw it coming."

"And in hindsight?" Harry asks, because dead tend to linger some time after they die, sometimes for as long as their funerals. The ones who are murdered usually figure out who killed them before they move on.

"Hm. Not much I found out. Too far away, couldn't find him," the dead man sighs, shaking his head. "But I figure the tape was pretty important, since it got me killed. I don't really mind, though. Got to see my dad again. That's been nice."

Harry nods, and writes it all down to the copy paper with a cheap, broken pencil. "Thank you," he says, eying the list of bullet point facts he's written down. It's all very important somehow, he knows that. He doesn't follow politics and has no idea who the people whose names he wrote down at Mr. Dawson's dictation are, but they mean something to someone. It interesting, even if not to him.

"Well. I'm done. Do you have any personal messages you might want to add?" he asks

"Not really. I hate my mum and got no friends," Dawson says, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "My life was kind of pathetic."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harry says, and then folds the paper. "Thank you for your time. You can go now."

The spirits nods and stands up. "Tell the smarmy bastard that he should take a look at that hot tech working on the fourth floor. There's something not too right about her," he says and shudders. "Kept giving me the willies at my funeral." With those parting words, he salutes and then fades away, leaving Harry alone in his small flat.

Harry nods to himself, and writes it down as requested. With that done, he looks at the paper again, wondering what to do next. He's not sure who wants this information, or if he even got the information they wanted. It has the after taste of a test, and Harry has bad experiences with those. And of course, dealing with someone without knowing where they kept their brains…

Harry ends up tugging the photocopy into his pocket. He will keep it, for now. If whoever brought it to him comes back, he will deal with it. Until then, he will wait.

He doesn't have to wait for long.

x

Her name, according to herself, is Acraea, but the way she says it is proof enough that it isn't her real name. She smiles at him distractedly, keeping most of her attention on her phone and only giving Harry a glance over it, before pointing at the car, telling him to get in, that she's to take him somewhere.

"No thanks," Harry says, and turns to away.

"I have to insist," Acraea says, and when he glances over his shoulder she's holding a gun at him.

There are dozens of ways for Harry to negate the gun. A shield, a summoning spell, apparation… Except there is a chance she could very well fire before he manages to as much as pull out a wand and even the Elder Wand can't save him if he can't get it in time. Apparation might've been quick enough, but it wasn't worth the risk of getting shot and then splinching while trying to apparate while wounded.

"Right," he says instead and turns to the car. Since whoever wanted him had the capability of sending a woman with a gun to fetch him, they probably had capabilities for more. Shaking his head and brushing his hand against the pocket where he has the Elder Wand, he gets into the car, where he is quickly joined by Acraea and her gun. She keeps it trained on him, even while she works her phone with her other hand, and as the car moves away and down the street, the gun doesn't as much as waver.

With a single spell he could've turned the entire car and it's occupants into a flaming ball of fire. Keeping that in mind, Harry looks out of the window, trying to figure out were they are taking him, and why. Down the street, across a crossing, to left, to right… towards the long row of warehouses not far from where Harry lived. And then, after weaving between the warehouses for a while, they drive inside one of them.

A man waits for him there, and after one look at him Harry decides that this man is most likely Mr. Dawson's smarmy bastard. There is an air around him, that would've painted him as such even without the suit, the haircut, the expression – the umbrella he has resting against his shoulder. Aura, even, except Harry is not actually a mystic, and doesn't believe in auras. Not that type, anyway.

"Well, then, Mr. Potter. Nice of you to come by," the man says, umbrella swinging down, metal point touching the cement floor. "I hope the drive was pleasant."

"Endurable," Harry says, tugging the photocopy from his pocket and unfolding it. "He was right about you," he says, and then hands over the paper. It is probably unnecessary – important, unimportant and, in the end, probably just a cover, a test. What he found out is not what he is here for; he's here because he _could_ find it out.

"Ah, yes," the man says, smiling and almost looking pleased with Mr. Dawson's opinion of him. "I'm afraid you can hardly take a step in life without leaving footprints on someone's ego. For me it is something of an occupational privilege."

"Not a hazard?" Harry asks mildly and the man only smiled a little wider. Shaking his head, the wizard lets it pass. It's not important. "Who do you want me to call and what do you want to know?" he asks, figuring they might as well get it over with

"Cutting right to the chase, aren't we? I like your straight forwardness," the man says, and leans to the umbrella, tugging the copy paper to his pocket and just looking at Harry for a while. "Harry James Potter. That's the name you wrote down when you rented your apartment, and yet there is no corresponding records elsewhere. Harry Potters are dime a dozen, but the particular Harry Potter you are supposed to be does not exist. Such things do make one wonder."

"Many things do," Harry answers. He doesn't bother defending himself, and just faces the man's gaze steadily. Inside he berates himself. He's been too obvious and too accurate. Of course he made someone curious – in this world even something as simple as acting as a medium is beyond extraordinary. He should've been more vague and made mistakes to breed doubt. He should've been vigilant. Now who knew how many people with too many resources and too many theories knew _something_ about him and even if that is only fraction of what it is, it's a fraction too much.

The people of modern era won't burn witches on stakes. No, they will dissect them in laboratories, and it is not a fate Harry likes to contemplate. There were so many easier, nicer ways to go. He knows it better than most, having talked about it with over dozen of people now

"Relax, Mr. Potter," the man says, amused and, yes indeed, smarmy in the way he pronounces the words, the way he smiles. "You are not the first person with… supernatural abilities I have encountered. Granted, your ability is something new, genuine and powerful as far as my research can tell, but not exactly unheard of." He chuckles. "I am not here to trap you."

"Liar," Harry answers, but relaxes because he can hear echo of something in the man's voice. Disinterest perhaps. This is not man who wants to know _how_ things work or _how_ something is done. No. "What do you want?" Harry asks, this time with interest instead of hostility.

The man chuckles again, shifts his footing and somehow ends up looking even more at ease and casual than before. "I often find myself in need of services of a good medium," he says. "But mediums, unlike Harry Potters, are not dime a dozen. Especially not the truly good ones."

"So you want my services?" the wizard asks. "I already knew as much. But…" he trails away. "You want more than just one session. You want _several_."

"You would be well compensated for your time," the man says, and looks over Harry's shoulder just as the sound of high heels echo in the empty warehouse. Acraea approaches them, with a folder in her hand. She smiles, hands it over to Harry, and then pulls out her phone again, typing away even as she returns towards the car. "Your down payment," the man says with a smile. "Open it."

Harry does. There are papers there – the topmost is a birth certificate. Then social security card. Medical records, school records… "Hm," the wizard hums, thoughtful. They are all well made and though all the details are completely wrong, they still seem _true_. Harry Potter, son of Jane and John Potter, born in London – _honestly_. The bank account is nice, though, even if empty. But what's most interesting is the paper in the bottom. It is vague and confusing document, but it makes what he's been doing randomly and beneath all possible counters into a legal occupation and trade making him a certified medium. "I didn't think there was such thing as using supernatural powers professionally."

"Yes, well. With that you are entitled to read cards and give horoscope readings over the phone if you so choose to. Not exactly what you do, I understand, but the closest one can get in this day and age," the smarmy bastard says, looking quite satisfied with himself. "Now what do you say?"

"To what?" Harry asks, and closes the folder. "All you've said is that you'd like my services. You haven't said when, where or for how long."

"You would work me part time – or should I say, on freelance basis - when ever I need it," the man says. "I don't require you all the time, but every once a while when something… unpleasant happens. I suppose it would be something like once, twice a month, depending on my need, of course."

"Of course. And if I have other things to do when you need me?" Harry asks.

The smarmy bastard smiles, soft and sharp at the same time like blade wrapped in honey. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, shan't we?" he asks. "Of course, if you would be as kind as to indulge me above all others, I would happily do some small favours to ease your way."

"After giving me a fake identity and offering me money, what's there left?" the now professional Medium asks, more amused than confused.

"Clientele," the man says. "Work for me, indulge me, and I will make sure you will have enough well paying clients to keep you busy – aside from myself, of course."

"Of course," Harry murmurs, and then tugs the folder underneath his arm. There's no decision to make, not really. "What is your name?"

The man laughs with what seems almost like delight. "Well, now, that would be telling," he says, amused. "I know better than to give my name to mediums. They have deplorable habit of finding out more than they ought to, if they have a name to go with a face."

"I suppose," the wizard answers, shaking his head. Probably best not to tell the man that he doesn't even need a name, if he has something else to go by. He's already given away too much. "Well then, Mr. Bastard. Do you have something for me to do now, or can I go back home?"

His new employer laughs again, now with amusement that at least seems honest. "Nothing for now, but I suspect soon enough I will come back calling. Thank you for your time, Mr. Potter," he says nodding his head almost low enough to call it a bow. "Acraea will take you home."

"Thank you," Harry answers with a smile of his own, and turns away. "Oh," he stops and glances at the Smarmy Bastard over his shoulder. "Was there anything of importance in the case of George Dawson or did I waste my time for your sick pleasure?"

"I don't do things without a cause, Mr Potter," the man answers, taking the paper out and glancing it over. "You will be paid for your troubles soon enough."

"Cheers," Harry says with a nod, and heads away. Acraea is waiting for him in the car, and the drive back to Harry's apartment is short, passing by quickly as Harry leafs through his new papers.

"Here," the woman says when the car stops, and hands over a neat cardboard box. "Your new phone. Keep it with you. Always."

"Right," Harry murmurs, accepting the box. He has no idea what he will do with it, but he can figure that out he supposes. If nothing else, it is easier to accept it at this point and then forget it later if he can't. "Thanks."

It is perhaps one of the most interesting days he has had since his stumble.

One of the most productive ones too.

xx

My next monstrous one shot HPxSherlock crossover project, sort of following in the footsteps of Magnificent, but obviously not quite. Also indulging my old fantasies of using the Stone of Resurrection for some _major_ medium work.

Still writing this thing, but I got a bit stuck about 22000 words in, so I'm posting this preview piece here hoping that possible comments might spark inspiration some more. Don't really have much time to write, what with job, moving, constant babysitting duties and packing and furnishing and decorating to do, but screw you real life, I will not let you keep me away from fanfiction.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	41. A crossover and three AU snippets

Warning; four different snippets, first one of them crossover with Doctor Who, others just AUs with varying other themes. Transformations, plagues, dystopias and deaths by arson.

**Time in forever  
**_(which is a Harry Potter x Doctor Who cross)_

As Harry forced his eyes open, everything was fuzzy. Not just what he saw - or more precisely, didn't, but most of all his head. It took him a moment to realise that he wasn't at Bill's house, or in the Tent, but in… in somewhere. Squinting slightly, he could just barely tell the colours of the red and golden banner in the distance, and as he kept looking at it, it cleared out until he recognised the lion emblazoned in it. The Gryffindor emblem.

Right. After the celebrations, he had staggered away, exhausted, his head spinning. He had encountered someone on the corridor - someone he knew, Ron. Maybe? He had promised to keep everyone away from the seventh year dormitories so that Harry could get some well earned rest, after the previous night. "Merlin knows you deserve it, mate," he had said, and Harry had nodded, staggered onward and collapsed to the nearest bed.

Sighing heavily, Harry rubbed his hand across his face. He was… well, not exhausted anymore. He actually felt oddly energetic, giddy almost - but there was odd feeling in his bones that made him burrow deeper into the covers and the pillow. Like if he moved even an inch, then he wouldn't be able to stop - and he probably wouldn't. There was still probably some sort of celebrations going on - and there would be interviews and who knew what else there was involved with ending a war.

Maybe, if he was sneaky about it, and got his invisibility cloak, he could run away without anyone noticing? He could go to the Grimmauld place, or maybe Bill's house, somewhere, where he wouldn't have to deal with all of that? Hermione would chew him up because of it, no doubt, but it would be worth it, just to avoid having his face end up in the papers. Again. Except it probably would.

Groaning softly to himself, Harry released the pillow he had been hugging. He couldn't sleep - he didn't feel tired at all anymore, and knew that even if he laid there for hours, he wouldn't be able return to the sweet oblivion of slumber.

Pushing himself up and running a hand through his hair, he glanced around and then grimaced sheepishly. He had been sleeping on someone's bed - who knew whose, though. Neville's maybe?

Well, it didn't matter. Shaking his head, Harry stood up and stretched, before making his way towards the bathroom. He might as well make himself presentable before he would get thrust into the spotlight against his will - maybe do something about his hair, though that might be a lost cause.

After relieving his bladder, Harry stepped in front of the sink to wash his hands - and there he stopped to stare, uncomprehendingly, at his mirror reflection. A complete stranger stared back at him, eyes comically wide, mouth hanging slightly open. Dark brown hair, eyes which weren't as much green as they were greenish brown, slimmer jaw than he had, thinner lips - different nose too. Except, when Harry turned his face, the reflection moved to match. "What the…?" Harry mouthed silently, and watched the stranger's mouth forming the words with him.

Then it hit him, and he grinned. It was probably a trick mirror - he had seen those in Fred and George's shop. The mirth faded a little at the memory that Fred was now gone, but after a moment Harry grinned again. Some Gryffindor - who knows, Seamus maybe, had probably set the mirror up for who knew what reason. Fred would've approved.

Wondering who the reflection was supposed to be, Harry tilted his head, eying his reflection curiously. The fake reflection wasn't a bad looking bloke, but he didn't ring any bells either. Definitely not any bloke he knew from his year - or what would've been his year, if he hadn't ran off to hunt down Voldemort's Horcruxes. Maybe it was just some random image conjured up by the mirror, but if that was, then it was really remarkable spell work - the reflection didn't look unnatural or mismatched at all, it was really real looking.

Turning his face from side to side, Harry smiled crookedly - a look which didn't look half bad on the reflection. It would've been sweet if he could've just became the bloke in the reflection. He didn't have the scar, or any other of Harry Potter's trademark features. Slinking away from Hogwarts as him would've been ridiculously easy.

But that was just stupid wishing and he wasn't the type to hide, not really. Shaking his head, he dried his hands onto the towel at the side of the sink before turning away. It was time to face the music. He hadn't managed to make himself presentable, but hell, if someone asked he could blame it on the trick mirror - and it would be the truth too. With that thought he turned to leave the bathroom and the dormitory soon after fetching his glasses and wand from the night stand of the bed he had slept in.

As he headed down the hall and towards the stairs leading down to the common room, he pushed the glasses on - and then quickly off, as his eyes sharply complained about them. Frowning, he eyed the glasses with confusion - they turned the world blurrier, all of sudden. Maybe they had caught a stray spell, and the prescription had gone off? Shaking his head, he pushed them into his pocket to be fixed later, wondering if he could get a bite to eat before he would have to do the type of things people did at the end of wars. He really wanted something special to eat. A pastry or maybe a fruit - or some strawberries. A banana - oh, yogurt could be good too, it had been forever since he had yogurt…

As Harry begun to make his way down the stairs, he noticed that there were some people in the room, sitting on the sofas and armchairs and chatting quietly amongst themselves. They perked up as they heard him approach, and then settled down back again, looking disappointed. Confused, Harry raised an eyebrow at that - especially when he noticed Hermione and Ron, both who sighed and turned back to the books in her lap, completely ignoring him.

"Hey, guys. What's going on?" Harry asked, and then blinked, touching his throat. His voice sounded weird.

"Nothing much. It's been a bit quiet, this morning - we're waiting for the news," a boy wearing Ravenclaw robes near by said. "There's some food in the Great Hall in case you're hungry. The elves are keeping an open buffet."

"Um. Okay," Harry answered, confused, glancing between the Ravenclaw and Hermione and Ron who weren't even looking at him. "What -"

"Don't," the Ravenclaw said, under his breath, and leaned over the arm of the armchair to speak to Harry so that he wouldn't disturb the others. "Potter's been asleep for nearly fifteen hours now. Those two are trying not to get all freaked out."

"What?" Harry asked again, now completely baffled. "But I'm -"

"Yeah, we're all curious, trust me, I know. But they've had a rough couple of days - hell, rough couple of years really. We can wait until things settle to ask questions, right?" the Ravenclaw said, giving him a meaningful look.

"Um…" Harry started, looking between the Ravenclaw and his friends again, rubbing the back of his neck in complete, utter bafflement. He was standing _right there_ and apparently no one recognised him? Was he having a dream or something - or were they playing a prank on him, or…

"Can't be," he muttered, and quickly turned around to rush back up the stairs - not to the seventh years dormitory this time, but to the first he encountered. It was empty, thankfully, and no one stood in his way as he rushed to the bathroom and in front of the mirror.

The brown haired, brown-green eyes stranger stared back, eyes wide. As Harry lifted his hands, running them over his eyes, his face, his hair, he realised that he wasn't just seeing it - it wasn't just a trick mirror, and anyway, how could there be two trick mirrors showing the same thing? No. It was his _actual_ reflection. The stranger in the mirror…

"Okay, how is this possible?" he muttered, tugging at the short brown hair - which was firmly attacked and the few strands that came easily loose were as brown in real life, as they were in the reflection. And there were the glasses too - the glasses which didn't help him see, the glasses without which he saw better, except they were _his_ glasses!

Maybe someone had dosed him Polyjuice potion? Frowning, Harry tugged at his ears, at his cheeks, peeled back his lips to eye his teeth - they were different too, they even felt different. Polyjuice did that, but who would… and why, and when? It would only run out eventually - whoever had crept up on him while he slept must've known that, so what was the point? A joke? Why - and at a time like this too - would anyone think that this was a good joke? Not George, definitely not, not so soon after Fred's death?

Well, whatever it was, it couldn't stick for long. Running his hands over his face and tugging his lower eyelids down a bit, Harry scowled at his reflection. What if, whoever had done this, hadn't just doused him, but taken some of his hairs as well? Was there somewhere a bloke running about with _his_ face?

"That's it," Harry muttered, and turned away from the mirror. He needed to get Hermione and Ron, and figure this out, and quick. Determinately he made his way to the common room again - this time ignoring the Ravenclaw boy completely and bending down just behind Ron and Hermione to whisper to them. "Hey. Um. Could you two come with me?" he asked carefully.

"What?" Ron asked, nearly jumping. "Don't sneak up on a guy like that! What do you want?"

"I'll explain, just, could you come with me?" Harry asked, as Hermione turned to look at him. Grimacing, he nodded towards the dormitories. "I need to talk to you in private. It's important."

Hermione frowned at him, looking him up and down. Her eyes widened slightly at something at Harry's collar, and she grabbed Ron's arm sharply. "That's just like Harry's!" she whispered, reaching out and snatching the yarn of the Mokeskin pouch from Harry's collar. "Where did - how did you get this?" she asked sharply under her breath.

"Just come with me already, I'll explain!" Harry whispered back, tugging the pouch from her fingers and back under the collar of his robes, before straightening his back and turning back to the dormitories. "Come on," he hissed at the two of them, while the rest of the people in the common room stared with wide eyes, and with confused frowns they did, gathering their things and following Harry up the stairs and towards the seventh year dormitories.

"Wait, you can't go there, Harry's sleeping there -" Ron started, stopped as Harry wrenched the door open to reveal the empty room.

"Yes, I was, but I woke up ten minutes ago," Harry answered, motioning at himself before pulling the two of them into the dormitory and closing the door behind them. "Did you see anyone coming here, is there anyone who could've came here?"

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Hermione asked, looking at the dormitory worriedly. "There's a lot of people sleeping here after yesterday. Maybe Harry switched rooms and we didn't notice -"

"We should've heard something, though, right?" Ron asked, turning to leave. "Let me check the other dormitories -"

"Guys, it's me," Harry snapped at them. "I woke up looking like this," he added, and when they gave him confused looks, he groaned. "It's _me_. I'm Harry!"

"Is this some kind of joke?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Because let me tell you, it is not funny at all -"

"It's not a joke, I'm - listen. You," Harry added, pointing at Ron. "You fished me out of the pond after I jumped in to get the Sword of Gryffindor. And you -" he turned to Hermione. "You have some mean apparition skills - you Apparated both of us out when Nagini tried to kill us back at Godric's Hollow." When they just forwned and glanced at each other uncertainly, he groaned out loud. "Oh, come on. We broke into Gringotts with Griphook, I used Imperius curses all around, we rode out on dragon's back after we got the cup, Hermione treaded us with dittany, we came to Hogsmeade, nearly got caught because I like idiot used a Patronus, we talked with Aberforth, he let us into Hogwarts through the portrait of Ariana, everything blew out of proportions, Snape got bitten and Ron really needs more practice with Parseltongue."

"Oh," Ron said, eyes wide. "Blimey, mate, I tried my best with that hissing stuff, but it's really bleeding hard, you know."

"Harry?" Hermione asked, looking equally surprise. She stepped forward, taking Harry's face between her hands. "What the - why do you look I like that, what happened to you?"

"I don't know - I woke up like this," Harry answered, sighing. Now they believed him. Good, he had thought he needed to start laying out some awkward personal information and such to get them to believe him. "Did you see anyone come in, someone who might've fed me Polyjuice or something while I slept?"

"No, there haven't been that many people here - most have headed home. Just some Gryffindor, and couple students from other houses and that's about it," Ron said. "Well, something might've happened during the night when we were asleep too, but that was hours ago."

"If that was it, it should've ran out," Harry answered, and winced as Hermione tugged at his hair. "Ow, careful!"

"Sorry, just checking," Hermione answered with a frown, before clasping him at the sides of his throat, thumbs digging in. "I don't think this is polyjuice. There's a certain sponge-like feeling to the flesh of a person under Polyjuice, you don't have that - your skin and flesh all feel real and -" she stopped, frowning, and concentrated onto Harry's neck, her thumb pressing here and there until it stopped. "Um, Harry, are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine - I look like some random bloke I've never met, but I feel fine. Why?"

"Your heart is pounding like mad," she answered, releasing his neck as he lifted his hand to try it too. Instead she took her free hand, and searched the pulse at the base of his wrist.

"So it is," Harry muttered, after finding the rapid beat of his heart. "I feel fine though, I'm not even out of breath or anything."

"Maybe we should go to madam Pomfrey," Ron suggested, looking worried.

"She's probably still busy with the wounded," Harry answered. "Besides I'm _fine_. I just want to know who dosed me and why and whether or not there's someone out there, running about looking like me."

"Oh. _Oh_, that could be bad. Especially now," Hermione said, eyes widening. "We need to… we need to send Kingsley a message, to let him know that we might have impostor - if someone gives an interview, looking like you, right now… that could be bad, very bad."

"Very, very bad," Ron agreed, nodding. "There's a crowd of reporters in Hogwarts, just waiting to hear from you - any word you say, or someone looking like you would say, it would be taken as word from Merlin him self now that you've defeated Voldemort and ended the war and all."

"Damn. Yes," Harry agreed. "We need to let Kingsley know. And everyone else too."

_(When the 10th Doctor went under cover as human, he had a wrong genetic sample, and ended up as baby magician instead. Martha sort of fumbled the ball there, and James ended up getting adopted by Mrs. and Mr. Potter who were elderly and had no children of their own. 10th ended up living as James Potter for 21 years without ever realising the truth even had a kid - and Martha has no idea, having lost the track of him._

_Harry, of course, inherits it all, and when Voldemort shoots him with the Avada Kedavra, Harry survives, but it instigates the regeneration process - and while Harry sleeps, his body regenerates into an actual time lord - except without any time lordy knowledge, of course. _

_The idea was that Harry, after he figures that he can't change back, goes out on hunt for answers with Hermione and Ron, and eventually finds the watch left behind by 10th and opens it - maybe not completely and more like just gaining piece of the knowledge, but it's enough for him to find the Tardis. After that Harry ends up going back in time, to 1981, when Voldemort first died. He finds his father sorta almost dead, and "resurrects" him by handing back the fob watch. Doctor's knowledge returns and he returns into a time lord - which, in the end, is what causes the cottage to blow up? Maybe yes_

_Also, this story was inspired by artwork I saw on deviantart, I will post a link to my profile for a while in case people are curious)_

x

**Iron Throne  
**_(which is an au-timetravel-thing)_

Harry looked down to the small bottle in his hand. it was strange to think that it was the major point in the plan to save entire nation of magic. It looked like muggle medicine bottle, like something you'd except to have cough drops or something like that - and a really cheap one at that with the label peeling off.

"Are you ready to go, Harry?" the Minister of Magic asked almost sadly, making him glance up. It struck him, not for the first time, how old Kingsley looked. He looked _ancient_, older than Dumbledore had when he had died. it would've been shocking to see, if Harry hadn't gotten so adjusted to it - if Hermione, standing beside the Minister, hadn't looked equally old if not older.

"No," Harry answered quietly while closing his hand around the white, unremarkable bottle. "No, I'm not."

Hermione smiled kindly to him, her face wrinkling even more than it usually did. "Oh Harry," she said, like she had for years. It sounded tired and airy now, coming from her dried lips. Her hands felt small and bony as she clasped them around his, making him squeeze the medicine bottle a little tighter. "You can do this," she assured. "You _can_. You're the _only one_ who can."

"I know that. Doesn't make me like it any better," Harry sighed, leaning in and pressing his forehead against her wrinkled brow. Her now white hair felt downy against his skin, almost like baby's hair. Inhaling sharply in order to stop himself from starting to bawl like a little girl, he lifted his free hand to stroke along the white hair, trying to memorise and strengthen his resolve. It was there, in the hair, in the bony neck beneath it, in the sharp, too thin shoulders. Merlin, she was only _thirty-nine_ and she felt like skeleton beneath his hand.

"God, I'm going to miss you, Hermione," he murmured. She was the only one of his friends _left_. Everyone else… even Ginny… Merlin, even James, Albus and Lily… "I'm going to miss you _all_ so much."

"I know. And I'll miss you too, Harry," she nodded tearfully before pulling back and taking a deep breath. "Just remember what I told you and taught you. Remember the potions, Harry, you have to remember them _perfectly_," she said, squeezing his hand feebly. "It all depends on them."

"I'll remember, I promise," Harry nodded and quickly wiped his hand across his eyes. Damn it, he was going to cry.

"Good," she said, patting his hand gently before finally letting go. With a weary look, she turned to Kingsley who had watched them with a oddly remorseful look about his face. "We should to get started."

"Yes," the Minister agreed, reaching his hand and squeezing Harry's shoulder. "Be strong, Harry," he said. "For the kids. _All_ of them."

Harry faced the dark skinned man seriously and then nodded. Then, after a glance at the medicine bottle he turned to look behind him, where the rune circle was waiting for him, the markings in the floor glowing faintly while the rune blades spun around, orbiting around the empty centre. He had been there to make it with Hermione and what was left of the Department of Mysteries, and knew exactly how it worked and what it did. But for one odd, dizzying moment it looked like a trap.

He really wished he didn't have to step into it alone. But it couldn't be helped. Even if either of the two would've came along, they wouldn't have made difference - neither was going to live for more than year or two at best. He was all there was left - all because of lucky coincidence that had made him immune to the Drain Plague.

"Should I kill him?" he asked suddenly and turned to look at the others. They had never talked about that, now that he thought about it. "Dumbledore I mean?"

Kingsley frowned and Hermione looked like she was seriously considering it for a moment before she sighed and shook her head. "No," she said. "In this matter it wouldn't make any difference if he died - and you need him in the war. Just put an end to it, as soon as you can."

"He's the only thing that kept Death Eaters from running amok and taking over the ministry before Voldemort returned," Kingsley agreed. "You need that too."

Harry frowned, wondering if he should argue, but in the end he only nodded. She was right. He would need Dumbledore for the War.

x

Chief Edward Montgomery hurried towards the Time chamber of the Department of Mysteries, his eyes flickering upwards towards the ceiling that was flashing with colour above him. Turquoise followed by indigo flashed across the corridor, followed by pulses of mint green and then ending with flash of emerald green, giving the whole place a very strange colouring for a moment. He had to wonder who had been the one to decide to give this particular silent alarm such colours, when _colour blue-green_ would've worked just as well, but this wasn't the time to think about this.

"Is it here yet?" he asked as he came to the chamber, where several Unspeakables were waiting, their wands aimed at the centre of the room where the flashing colours were originating. The others shook their heads as the chief hurriedly pulled out his own wand as well, and threw few scanning and analyzing charms at the centre of the room. They were definitely giving a reading, and it was obvious that the alarm was in no way false, but the reading was weak still and it was hard to figure out where - or when - it was coming from. He bared his teeth in annoyance.

"Over twenty years," one of the Unspeakables answered to the Chief's unspoken anxiety. "Anything under and it would've already arrived."

"I'd say at least over thirty, maybe even over forty," another said, waving his wand at the centre of the room. "It's taking so long and it's still weak. Has to be over thirty years at least."

"Still too weak to tell what it is exactly in any case," Chief Montgomery muttered, frowning. What a bloody great way to start working as the head of the Department of Mysteries this was. As far as he knew his predecessor had never had to worry about any thing bigger than maybe potions accident or runaway magical creature. And _he_ got bloody time travel on his first week? "Wands at ready Unspeakables. Whatever it is, if it is hostile we're not letting it through here."

They waited in anxious silence as the lights flashed over their heads. Those who were still scanning the room sensed the arrival before others saw the shimmering lights in the centre or before the dark shape started to appear. They gripped their wands tighter, stunning and restraining charms on the tips of their tongues as the blurry shape turned more and more solid - and proved to be a person. The lights above stopped flashing as the person turned completely solid and stood before them in his dark robes, a backpack hoisted on his shoulder and parchment scroll held in one hand.

There was a moment of surprised silence, before the Unspeakables glanced at their department head, who steeled himself. "State your name and reason for time travelling, traveller," Montgomery demanded, steadying his wand at the traveller. It was a wizard of maybe twenty years with dark hair and cloak, and pair of spectacles covering his startlingly green eyes.

"Are you Edward Montgomery, the twenty-eight head of Department of Mysteries?" the man asked instead of answering when as the Chief frowned with surprise and nodded, he held out the parchment scroll he was holding. "Missive from the forty-sixth head of the Department."

Murmur of shock went through the Unspeakables at the words, before Montgomery stepped forward. He waved his wand at the parchment to see if it was magical, and then accepted it from the traveller's fingers. A quick check confirmed the Department of Mysteries seal, and wave of wand brought forth the secret seal beneath it. it was possible to fake the upper seal, but not the secret bottom seal, which meant that the seal at least was legit.

With little bit of dread, the Chief broke the seal and opened the parchment. It was filled with text that was divided in three parts. The Chief glanced over the text once, before turning his eyes to the first part and reading it intently. It turned out to be the most horrible history lesson Edward Montgomery had ever endured, beating anything Cuthberg Binns had dished out by mile and half.

He glanced up and narrowed his eyes to take the young man in with more detail. He looked healthy, if a little tired and maybe a little worn. His cheeks were just slightly hollow, he probably hadn't been eating well, but aside from that the traveller looked right as rain. Which was a little strange, considering what the letter said.

Shaking his head, Montgomery turned back to the letter and read on. The second part was explanation about just that, explaining why the young man was healthy. Apparently it was due to a lucky accident with extremely poisonous magical creature in the boy's youth that had given him immunity.

_(Not much to say about this one. Basic time travel gig.)_

x

**Building from ashes  
**_(Somewhat dystopiac au)_

Diana and Jack waited nervously in the kitchen, the letter passing from hand to hand as they reread the important bits all over again, as if the letter hadn't been already reread to the point where the paper had gotten frayed. They still couldn't quite believe it. The letter had answered so many question about their son, John, but at the same time it had only opened hundred more, and yet still, somewhere in the backs of their heads, they still weren't quite sure it wasn't some sort of sick joke, maybe by one of John's classmates.

"Maybe some more tea?" Jack suggested, as Diana fingered the letter, eying the lines. She nodded absently, rereading again the parts about daily training needed for perfect control and that the stories about Witch Trials hadn't been quite stories - and that without proper care, the power John had could lead to deaths. His own, or someone else's.

Diana's fingers shook a bit, and she placed the letter down once more, tugging her hands into her armpits instead. As Jack went about the kitchen, making the tea, she thought back. When John had been three, and the mobile phone had burned up. When he had been four, and the computer had gone up in magnificent, terrifying display of smoke. Four other phones had gone since then and after the second computer John hadn't been let into her office anymore. Those were just the more expensive incidents. There were others. Toys floating, ugly jumper turning into exact copy of the one John had wanted - window first breaking when John had a temper tantrum, and then fixing when John busted to tears with guilt…

The magnificent, terrifying power their boy had. For so long they had known about it, but hadn't dared to pin a name for it. Psychic power? Supernatural force? Whatever it was, it was there, and it was potent. And so very scary that they had only barely dared to let their boy go to school at all, only bending to it after John had promised over and over and over again to try and not do anything, to be calm and not let his emotions control him. The meditation sessions they had gotten for their boy helped some, but weren't a perfect solution. A mean boy's underwear turned upside down, his backpack broke alarming rate - a mean girl's hair got cut by invisible scissors before growing back, teacher's face going swollen with boils…

Magic, Diana thought, fingers twitching. _Magic_.

"Here, honey," Jack said, placing the cup in front of her, and with a nod she accepted it. The most terrifying thing about having a name for what John had was the knowledge that someone actually knew enough about it to pin a name to it. That it was… _known_ meant that it was, somewhere, somehow, common enough. Not to mention about the other side of the thing, the old stories and history and those witch trials and burnings the letter had mentioned… what had been just fairy tales and stories of misbegotten past all suddenly had a seed of truth in them, and as much as Diana loved her son for all his faults and gifts, she was afraid.

"It's almost time," Jack said, looking at the clock and taking the letter Diana couldn't read anymore. She glanced at the clock as well and let out a shuddering sigh. It was almost ten o'clock - _he'd_ be here, soon. A wizard, in their house, to explain everything they didn't know about their own son.

"And here I thought it would be bad if John would be found with mental problems," she murmured, thinking about neighbour who had a troubled daughter who had to go through several therapist meetings in a week. A stranger knowing what was wrong with your child in clinical detail and being able to help them when you weren't, that was bad enough. But this… this was something from another world.

There was a polite knock and then another - three of them in total - on their front door. Diana and Jack shared a look and stood up in unison, Jack leading the way while Diana spent a moment needlessly smoothing the table cloth and making sure the curtains were somewhat straight.

"Mr. Cadman?" a soft male voice asked. "I'm Harry Potter - I sent you a letter earlier this week. May I come in?"

"Yes, of course. Um. May I take your coat, or -" Diana could hear her husband blustering, and smiled despite herself. Jack had never been the social type.

"It's alright," Harry Potter said, and as Diana got another cup for their guest, placing the biscuit dish to the table as well, Jack led the… _wizard_ into the kitchen.

He didn't look much like Diana had thought. She had been fighting the stereotypical image of a wizard - white beard, long robe, that sort of thing - but the man her husband presented to her was not in the least wizardly. He had black, wild hair and round glasses and very haggard look about him, like he hadn't had the time to sleep or brush his hair in… years. He was clean, she could see that, but his clothing were faded and patched and wrinkled beyond recognition.

"Sorry about the way I look, it's been a tiresome decade," the man said with faint smile, which he obviously had to force to his features. "Do you mind if we get to business right away? I have six other houses to visit today."

"Six - there are others, then, other kids like John?" Diana asked and then stepped aside a bit. "Please, take a seat," she offered. The man looked like he was about to fall asleep where he stood.

"Thank you and yes, there are. Thirty to forty are born each year, nowadays - to normal families like yours," the man nodded, and sit down with palpable look of relief. Jack and Diana changed looks and sat down across him. "Your John, while on the more powerful side obviously, is not uncommon or strange - he will have plenty of peers, should you decide he needs training," the man assured.

"And he is… a wizard? You're sure about that?" Jack asked, clutching his fingers into loose fists.

"Yes, I am. There are ways to tell - the bursts of accidental magic your son has been experiencing are like beacons to those with means to look, and I have the means," Potter answered nodding. "I'm sure you're curious to know what that means, exactly."

"Please, tell us," Diana nodded. "There have been incidents, and it is all so wild, so uncontrolled…"

"It usually is, before several years of training," the man agreed. "To be a wizard - or a witch, as girls with magic are called - is to command the power most commonly known as magic. And it is pretty much how it sounds like, science can't and by it's nature won't explain the process of magic or how it can be possible, it defies all that, it defies it's own definition at times. In simplest terms it is the power to affect the surroundings and self in supernatural ways."

The man eyed the pair of them thoughtfully. "What sort of things has your son been doing that seem… unnatural?" he asked kindly.

Diana and Jack exchanged a look and then explained some of the incidents. The mobile phones that never lasted and things that floated, the transforming sweater and the boils that had appeared onto the teachers face seemingly instantly. Potter nodded here and there, not surprised in the least.

"I'm afraid certain newer technologies are too sensitive and delicate to stand magic, such as mobile phones and computers," the man said. "They rely too much on the science that magic defies. For the rest of it, that all is perfectly normal. Levitation of objects is one of the earliest powers a wizard can learn. Transforming something into something else on other had is called Transfiguration - what happened to the teacher is also, in sense, transfiguration, only that of much delicate level. I suspect your son might have a talent in human transfiguration, if the world was any different, he might've had a bright future ahead of him as a magical healer."

"If… the world was any different?" Jack asked, frowning. "What does that mean?"

Potter sighed, looking at them like he wasn't sure if they needed to know. "Well, you deserve to know, Mr and Mrs. Cadman, as the decision of John's future is in your hands. As things stand right now, I am the only adult magician left in Britain," he said. "There used to be more - enough for a whole separate body of government, for entire classes of jobs solely for magic, for entire hidden nation of magicians. If John had been born before all that was lost, he would've had the opportunity of great many of specialised magical occupations, healer for example. Nowadays, however, there is no one left to teach those skills, so at best he might learn something from books, but that is all."

Diana frowned. "There used to be - what… what happened?"

The man smiled sadly, tiredly and unhappily. "There was a war," he said softly. "And at the end of it a very despicable magician released a magical plague that wiped all magical humans of Britain. It spread to the continent and all around the world as well, but most other magical nations managed to take precautions before it hit them hardest, and they survived. In Britain, however, I am the only one."

Diana and her husband stared at him with wide eyes, mouths hanging slightly open. The wizard sighed softly. "The plague ran out it's course over fifteen years ago - your son would've died at birth, if it hadn't. Many children did, before. There is no danger left there, only in the young newborns of magic, like your son, who need training to control their powers."

"Wait, wait, wait, hold up a bit. You can't just tell us that - we need to know everything," Jack said. "From the beginning. Magic can do that, there were people… and you're the only survivor, how does that work, why you -"

"I wasn't a teacher back then. I was a soldier - you could call me a general even. I opposed the wizard who made the plague and in turn he made me the only one immune, just so that I could get to enjoy the full effect. All my friends died, everyone I knew, my family, my loved ones…" the wizard answered, with slight edge of steel in his voice, before sighing. "No, I'm sorry, you deserve to know, of course. It is a very long story, however, and I do get tired of telling it."

Then, with soft, weary voice, he told them about a wizard called Voldemort who had wanted to rule all magicians, of his people, the Death Eaters, and of the war. How people had died, how they had fallen under the effects of mind control and such vile magics, ad how in the end all had seemed lost. The man before them Harry Potter, had been something like a freedom fighter, and he had somehow managed to rile up enough support to launch one final battle against voldemort - which, at the time, they had seemed able to win.

"Voldemort though was nothing if not a rotten bastard. He didn't want to die, but if he did die he'd make sure he'd take as many as he could with him, so he booby trapped his own body, and his dying breath was the start of plague," the man sighed, staring at the table with eyes hazy with memories. "The only good thing about it was the fact that he could only make the plague effect magical humans - the rest of magical creatures survived. And magic is resilient and replenishes itself quickly after disasters, so more magical children are born now to non-magical families than ever before in history. So the base of our old world is still there - all there is left is trying to rebuild."

"And you're the only one who -" Jack murmured.

"Well. I'm the only human," Potter answered. "Like I said, the other magical creatures survived, from where we get to Hogwarts. After the plague had ran it's course - and it took some while - I knew that it was only the matter of time before magic would bounce back. There was danger there, I knew that. Each year so many magical children are born to people who are ill equipped to handle it. I knew they needed guidance, so I started making Hogwarts, the magical school here in Britain, ready for it as well as I could."

"But if there's forty each year and you're the only teacher…" Diana eyed the man with shock. "How do you manage it?"

"I'm not the only teacher. Just the only human one. Hogwarts as it is now enjoys the staff of multitude of species. Four centaurs, two hags, a vampire, three ghosts, two dwarves, a goblin, a mermaid and a multitude of house elves staff the positions at the school these days," the man said. "The school is nothing like it was when I studied there, but we manage to do what we must, which is to teach the new generations of magic how to control their powers."

"… a _vampire_?" Jack asked, while Diana just stared at the wizard in shock

"He's perfectly harmless," the wizard chuckled faintly, rubbing his neck somewhat awkwardly. "We have an agreement and he hasn't harmed a single student, and wont if I have my say about it. never mind that.

Clearing his throat before they could ask more, Potter continued. "As of today, the school lasts seven to ten years depending on the student - and most of the classes take place on weekends, and during your usual holidays, so students can go to normal schools and learn to control their magic on the side," he said." It didn't use to be like this, of course, Hogwarts was your usual boarding school, but considering the future of these children and fact that they can probably never attain livelihood in the magical side of the world alone, not unless they leave the country… well, normal schooling is equally important."

_(__Kinda like Iron throne, I suppose, but with different take on it. One where Harry failed.)_

x

**Open door  
**_(__just a what if)_

The door was open.

Harry sat in the darkness of his little cupboard, staring at the thinnest line of faint light that marked the spot between the door and its frame. He wasn't sure where the light came from, but he knew that it wasn't usually there. _Usually_ the door was firmly shut, locked even… but not this time. For some reason things were different this time, this night.

Brushing his tongue over his gums and swallowing the bitter taste of blood in his mouth, Harry wondered when the door had been left open. He remembered how, before the darkness had taken him, Uncle Vernon had been dragging him to the cupboard. Harry had accidentally broken one of Aunt Petunia's fine china that day and been severely punished for it. After the punishment Uncle Vernon had promised to lock him up for the rest of the week. Harry could remember the door of the cupboard coming closer but couldn't remember being thrown inside - but that was what had happened obviously…

Had he blacked out before he had been thrown inside? Had Uncle Vernon, seeing it, maybe gloating about it, forgotten to lock the cupboard? Harry narrowed his eyes. It had never happened before. He was usually locked in every night, released only to eat, use the toilet, bathe and do his numerous chores during the day. And usually he really was locked, usually he couldn't open the door no matter how he tried - and if he tried too noisily, he was punished for it…

But the door was open.

It seemed like opportunity to do something he had never been able to do before. To leave the cupboard on his own free will. But what would he do once he had done that? Pushing he door a bit more open with the tips of his toes, Harry pondered on it. Maybe he would go to the fridge and take out some food. Maybe he would eat as much as the Dursleys ate… just for once.

No, that wasn't worth the punishment he would get if he would get caught.

Should he play with Dudley's toys? There were many of them, scattered all over, they looked so interesting. Maybe, just for once, Harry could take one of Dudley's cars and push it across the carpet. Or maybe he would take Dudley's new bike and try at it, he was sure he would be better at using it than Dudley…

No, that wasn't worth it either. No, what ever he would do with this chance, it needed to be _worth_ it. Really, really worth it… something so great that it would make up for the beating he would get, and for being locked in the cupboard for days and days as he probably would be if Uncle Vernon would find out…

Harry stopped and looked up. As he eyed the underside of the stairs, thought came to him. What if the cupboard wouldn't be there? What if he would get rid of the cupboard? That would _definitely_ be worth the punishment - that way Uncle Vernon wouldn't even be able to lock him in the cupboard. They would maybe even have to put him to Dudley's second bedroom - no way would Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia let him stay in the living room…

Excited smile rouse to Harry's face before he realised that he didn't know how to get rid of the cupboard. Frowning in the darkness, Harry wondered what sort of ways people used to get rid of the things they didn't like the things they wanted to get rid off…

Then he remembered it. Aunt Petunia had once made him watch a telly show about gardening so that he'd know how to weed properly. In the show there and been a scene where the people in the telly had burned a lawn to get rid of some weed they couldn't get rid of by hand… and they had said that the grass would return greener afterwards

Harry couldn't get rid of the cupboard by hand either. So he'd burn it. Uncle Vernon would be able to rebuild it better than it was, right? And before then, Harry would get to live in Dudley's second bedroom… Yes. That would definitely be worth it.

Determinately Harry sat up from his cot and shifted closer to the door. Listening carefully he pushed the door open. The house was silent. Smiling despite the little fear inside him, Harry stepped out fully. It was exciting, to be outside on his own. His smile widening, he walked to the kitchen, remembering how aunt Petunia had used a box of matchsticks to light the candles of Dudley's birthday cake not long ago, then his cousin had turned five…

Opening the drawer quietly, Harry reached inside and felt around with his hand. He almost pricked his fingers on the scissors before his fingertips found the matchbox. Pulling it out, he eyed it with excitement before pushing the drawer back shut. Then he tiptoed back to his cupboard.

Quickly Harry checked if the place had anything he wanted to take off before he'd burn it. As he had suspected, he found nothing, so he kneeled beside the cot and took out a matchstick from the box. Scrapping it sharply along the side of the box, he managed only to get out a spark so he tried again and again until, with a little flare, the match lit up. Grinning widely, he looked around for something he could use the matchstick on.

Then he noticed the box uncle Vernon had pushed underneath the cot because it hadn't fit in the garage. There was a bottle in with red box on the side - and black flame inside it. Taking it out, Harry looked at the picture of the black flame for a moment before opening the bottle and pouring it onto the cot. Then, as the match he had lit had gone out, he took another, lit it and then dropped it to the cot.

It immediately caught in flames. Grinning widely, Harry shifted back before pouring the clear liquid in the bottle all over his cot. Then, seeing that the flames were starting to get hot and spread all over, he hurriedly stood up and hastened out of the cupboard.

Second later, the fire alarm in the kitchen started beeping loudly. His heart jumping into his throat, Harry threw a panicked look at the alarm. Then he looked up the stairs. Smoke was starting to rise from the stairs and from the open cupboard door, so he slammed it shut. Over the noise he couldn't hear if Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia were awake yet, but with this racket they couldn't have not woken up…

"What the bloody hell is this?" Harry could hear his uncle bellow. His panic growing, Harry looked hastily around, not wanting uncle Vernon to catch him immediately, he hurried for the front door. It took him a few tries, but he managed to door open just as the heavy steps of his uncle could be heard coming from the stairs.

He heard a cry of surprise, a crash, and then… a bang. Wave of warm heath threw Harry almost against the half open door, but he struggled to look over his shoulder to see that not only the cupboard, but the walls around him, the stairs, the handrail… they were all on fire. The flames reached the ceiling now, reaching the second floor…

Hurrying outside, Harry backed the sidewalk. From inside he could hear his aunt screaming for his uncle, he could hear how Dudley started wailing. His eyes wide with shock, he watched how reddish glow started flickering in the windows and how smoke started to come out from the open window of his uncle's and aunt's room.

The fire alarm died away. Looking around Harry could see that the neighbours had came out to watch with shocked looks on their face. As they did, Harry could hear his aunt's high pitched shrieks and how they faded away, how his cousin's wailing died out…

Then, for a blissful moment, it was silent. Smile of surprised delight spread to Harry's face just as he started hearing the sirens of the fire brigade.

_(Yeah, um. :'D no idea what I planned to do after this, but it was fun while it lasted)_

_(also, yay for 1000 reviews!)_


	42. Stunted Wings, HP x Temeraire snipped

Warnings; Unless you've read my story _Flying Again_ this won't make sense. This is a snipped AU version of that fic, where Harry and Charlie never met. Harry Potter x Temeraire cross

**Stunted wings (Flying Again)**

1.

Harry finds comfort in the jingling of jewellery. He can never explain it to anyone, how the glitter of gold and silver soothes his soul or how the sound of chains lightly clicking together sounds like the sweetest music - not that he really needs to. He hides the bracelets underneath long sleeves and the necklaces under high collared shirts and robes and the few time he dares to wear rings or earrings, it is in privacy of his own room.

The Dursleys had taught him early on, that being dainty was only slightly less worse than showing that daintiness to the world. Even if the word doesn't seem to fit, nor does the entire concept, really, he had been young and impressionable, and now, years later, he can't shake the fear of being thought strange and odd and _unfitting_ for his odd habits. It is so heavy, that he cannot share that part of himself with anyone.

It is still no where near as painful, as suppressing his own curiosity, his thirst to know and learn and discover and understand. That, he knows, will be a constant ball of never ending aching inside him that he will never get rid off.

He comforts himself with the fact that, at least, he has finally stopped looking over his shoulder, waiting for someone who's not coming.

2.

Charlie's life was marred by triumphs and disappointments warring with each other and turning everything into a dissonance of feeling. It seems like he has forever found himself surprised how well something went, like when his father smiles and nods and tells him that dragon taming is a noble profession. But then there is also the constant nagging disappointment, so strong that it seems to suck all strength out of him, when he time after time waits and never hears a dragon talk.

Dragonology is all he has ever wanted from life, from since long before he could quite remember. He had always known that tending to dragons would be what he would do for the rest of his life. He studied, he prepared, he even felt proud of himself for taking so many measures. And in the end… it was nothing like he had thought. Dragons flew alone, they fought and roared, they burned their caretakers with their carelessness and left behind a mess for their caretakers to clean. And they never talked.

It's nothing like he had thought. And the worst thing is, he hadn't been hoping for it to be something it hadn't turned out to be, no. He had _thought_, he had _believed_, he had _felt_ it with the same certainty he felt that tomorrow the sun would rise. And yet… and yet.

The dragons he dreamed of didn't exist. After years of studying and searching and trying, he has started to wonder if they ever had.

3.

Even after becoming a legally adult, and overcoming the hardships of his youth and teenage years - even after fighting and finally winning a war - Harry doesn't feel right in his own skin. His shoulders feel awkward, they always did, and no matter how he likes some of the clothes he has, especially the nice, albeit expensive dress robes he had once bought and never dared to wear outside, he feels much better off without any. Often he runs his hands through his hair and face and none of it feels right.

Yet another thing he never tells to anyone. The problem is, he had hoped that it would change. Once he got a little older, once Voldemort would be gone, once there would peace, once everything would be over… things would change. But they didn't. His fingers feel weak, his balance is always a little off and he can't explain why, and his back always, always feels bare.

"Maybe you should take a year off," Hermione suggests, seeing through his attempts to hide how he feels. She always does. "Clear your head a bit, travel maybe. Or just lock yourself up in Grimmauld place. Just… take time to yourself, to, you know, discover yourself. After the last year, you deserve it."

"Discover myself," Harry answers and smiles sadly. She doesn't even know how close to home she hits with those words. Eighteen years of trying, and he still hadn't managed that. "Travel a bit… Yes. I think I will."

Maybe he would wear jewellery when went, maybe he'd don elaborate robes of the oriental design he liked, maybe he would put beads in his hair and read arithmancy out in the open, rather than in the secret. Maybe, just maybe, he'd find someone else, than just himself.

Maybe.

4.

Seven years Charlie had worked with dragons. Ever since graduating from Hogwarts it had all he had been doing. Working with them, tending to them, mending their wounds and breaking up their fights and somewhere in the middle of it he had been reading and collecting books and trying to find something, anything, that would ease the tension inside his chest. Seven years - full of disappointment.

He feels like giving up. It is a alluring thought in the back of his mind that he has been avoiding all these years because Dragons had been more than a interest, they had been a duty, and he took his duties seriously. But now, after so long, he thinks to those tantalising dreams and passing notions, the fantasies he had always found so soothing, so inviting, but to which he had never paid that much mind to.

The deck of a ship, salty wind of the sea in his hair and rope burns in his palms as he takes the rudder. It is a strange fantasy to have, especially for a wizard, but it has been there, luring him. The waves rise and crash along the shoreline of his mind and he knows the oceans are wide, endless, open.

After seven years of Dragonology, he wonders if it had been better, if he had gone with his dreams, rather than with his duties.

"With the war and all, it doesn't seem all that smart to wait," Bill had told him, when Charlie had asked why he had opted to marry when he had. "Everything could go to hell and we all could die tomorrow. And when I die, I don't want to have any regrets."

After seven years, Charlie decides it's not yet too late.

5.

Many offer to go with Harry, when he packs his bags. "Come on, it would be brilliant, mate. Just you and me, off to see the world," Ron says, nudging at his shoulders, eyes shining with the promise of adventure. "It would be a… sweet getaway, wouldn't it?" Ginny suggests, still not quite over the fact that Harry had not resurrected their relationship. "It is always a bit risky, travelling alone. You should take someone experienced with you," Kingsley suggests, giving thoughtful look at the near by Aurors, his own bodyguards. Hermione alone seems to understand. She is going off on her own too, off to Australia to find her parents.

Harry smiles at them all, thanks them and hugs them, even dares to let that inner desire for affection show and kisses them. "I promise, I will be perfectly alright," he assures them. It seems somehow cruel and mean, but the very notion of getting away is already making him feel more like himself, and when he boards the train for France, he exhales long, heartfelt sigh of relief.

In the end, he dons a pair of earrings in the train bathroom, and pulls one of his more nondescript necklaces onto the top of his shirt. It is not much, the earrings are mere studs and the necklace only a simple chain, but the glint of silver comforts him. When he returns to his seat, he holds his chin a little higher, and the first thing he does is to pull out a thin book about mathematics from his bag.

It is strange, maybe a little abnormal for him, but he has never felt better in his life.

6.

The dragon sanctuary seems sad to see him go, but Charlie knows it's just momentary. It wasn't like the work he had been doing was in any way exceptional or gravely important and there would be other people to take his spot. In the end he leaves in peace, saying good byes to his former colleagues and promising to write to his friends from where ever he would end up, and, hopefully, leaving no negative feelings behind.

He thinks he might miss the dragons, but he isn't sure. None of them had been like anything he had thought they would be, and though as creatures they are magnificent… they aren't the ones he had wanted. In a way, it is easier to get away from them - maybe that way the disappointments would end.

In the beginning he considers heading back to home, to Britain, but a more alluring notion discovers him first as he reads from a add in a magical newspaper, how a salvage crew on board the_ Circe _was looking for deckhands. Writing an application even without any idea what to write or how to go about it or what to expect, really, was surprisingly easy, and once the letter was on the way, Charlie breathed in slowly and deeply.

He thought he might smell the sea already.

xx

Just a little what if.


	43. Alone Together

Warnings; kinda weird, sorta creature!Harry, sorta crossover but not quite.

**Alone together**

The crowd roared somewhere behind them, but Harry could barely hear. All notions of before, of being clever and fast and snatching the golden egg from right under the dragon's feet, faded away under the overwhelming panic. The Hungarian Horntail, roaring twice as hard as the crowd and infinitely more ferocious, had broken away from the arena and was now chasing after him with all the rage of nesting mother with her eggs in danger. All Harry could think was getting away and trying, against all odds, to stay alive.

Four years of magic and countless dangerous situations did not make him all that confident that he could. A troll he could handle, a basilisk, yes, wraiths and spirits and runaway prisoner – even a werewolf. But there was something very different about all that and about having a seventy foot dragon chasing after him, a behemoth among creatures, big enough to make the insidiously deadly basilisk seem _minuscule_ in comparison.

It was rather like being chased by a mountain. A volcano on wings, roaring fire after him. And his flimsy broom, the expensive, top of the line Firebolt, so great and sturdy and fast before, seemed now weak and fragile and so very slow. The dragon was gaining on him with ease any broom maker would've loved to manufacture, and with a horrible intend. It wasn't even trying to breathe fire on him anymore, no. it didn't want to burn him – it wanted to _eat_ him.

He really should've paid Hogwarts School motto more attention. Not that he had been tickling this particular dragon, of course.

Looking wildly over his shoulder, Harry had barely enough time to duck into the side and avoid the enormous maw with teeth that, from this angle, seemed bigger than he was. His heart pounding, he ducked fast to the side, circled around and in hopes of confusing the dragon, darted towards the Forbidden forest, hoping against all hope that he could make it into the tree cover and hide. Or at least lose the dragon for a while, so that he could get something of a head start when the chase resumed. Anything.

If there was ever a time Harry would've started to hate the magical world, this would've been it. He hadn't wanted to get to this stupid tournament. Sure, the idea had been fascinating – but money, eternal glory, death defying trials? No, he didn't need any more of those, he had more than his fair share already. And yet, he had been put into the tournament anyway, a fourteen year old competing against seventeen year olds, three years worth of magical studies in between making the entirety of the affair less than fair.

The dragon roared, low and high at the same time, spitting fire and beating the air with massive wings. The sounds of the crowd – or any other sound except the roaring and the wind – were gone. The sound of Harry's heart made him nearly deaf to the roar, though, and the forest seemed unforgiving, being still so far away. Maybe he ought to duck under the Viaduct? The gaps between the legs of the bridge would be too small for the dragon to pass through, it might stop the beast for a moment… but no. Most likely the dragon would crash right into them, and then Harry would have to pay for the repairs.

That was, if he came out of the ordeal alive at all. He had considered it before, but now he was sure. Whoever had arranged his name to pop out of the Goblet of Fire had indeed wanted him dead. And they would most likely get their wish – if the dragon didn't kill him, then the second or third tasks would. After all, if they _started_ with dragons… he didn't even want to think what the other tasks would be. Wrestling Nundus and having staring matches with Dementors maybe.

Heat against the back of his robes was the first warning, and instinct of Quidditch player as well as someone regularly in deathly situations made Harry drop like a stone, and out of the way of the barrage of flames. They still nearly licked the top of his head and as he, wide eyed and terrified, darted away again, he had to pat his hand over his hair to make sure it hadn't caught on fire. The dragon ducked right after him, now used to the quick turns Harry could take and unwilling to let him get away, and without any other means of escape, Harry continued to plummet towards the ground – to pull op would make him slow down, the dragon would catch him…

Bad idea. The dragon had some dozens of _tons_ of weight on him, and body designed for this sort of thing. In contest of falling, it won wings down, and crown of horns rattling, and only luck and some divine intervention made Harry's broom wobble enough that the tail end hit the dragon's snout, sending him off course and over the dragon's head, rather than directly into its mouth. What followed was less lucky, as Harry's broom crashed against the dragon's horns, and _shattered_, bits flying away from Harry's hands under the force of the air rushing by, leaving him with only a broken handle to hold on.

Whatever survival instinct made Harry reach out wildly and grasp a hold of whatever he could reach ended up probably saving his life, as he grabbed a hold of the dragon's numerous horns and barely managed to keep himself from flying off right after the bits of the Firebolt. Not that it made his situation any better. His broom was gone, and he was hanging onto a _feral, enraged dragon_ for dear life, and no, his situation was not good at all.

The dragon, noticing him there by some instinct or maybe by the feel of his weight, beat herself out of the dangerous plummet, and shook her head, roaring in anger. With nothing else to keep him from deadly fall, Harry held on with all his might, letting out a grunt of pain as he was thrown to the side and right into one of the many horns, thanking his lucky stars that the horn in question was broken and dull and not razor sharp like most of them. So, instead of puncturing his lung, the impact only gave him bruises – and maybe a fractured rip or too, but he could live with that.

He couldn't live for long where he was. Already the dragon was ducking her head and lifted her foreleg, talons reaching for him to swat him off, probably mauling him in the process. Hurried and haphazard, Harry swung himself out of reach, sneakers slipping on the dragon's hide but still finding some purchase – the Horntail's hide was marked evenly with sharp and rough protrusions, making the hide seem almost scaled with what felt like rough stones, like badly made pavement. It was a very small blessing to find footing there, though, because soon the dragon was reaching with both front legs, talons scraping to get him, and it was only matter of time until they would reach.

He needed to do something. But what?

Slipping into the crown of horns, hoping that they would shield him from the talons some, Harry pulled out the wand he had thrust into his pocket in the beginning of the chase. At leas he still had that, he thought, though what good it did him, he had no idea. Dragons were immune to most magic – according to Charlie, only magic that had any effect on a dragon was transfiguration, and that only because they could make chains and cages and whatnot appear and take form around the dragon. Spells cast directly at dragons were borderline useless – even something like the infamous Killing Curse would be nothing more to a dragon than what a bee-sting would be to a man.

Still, Harry had to try. Wild, he cast a stunning hex at one of the talons reaching for him, sending a blast of red from the tip of his wand. It made the talons falter a little, but nothing more. The blasting hex, which Harry had yet to fully master, did even less, hitting one of the horns instead and dying away without making any damage. Cursing to himself, Harry tried again, any spell that came to mind – he even tried to levitate the reaching talons away, to no avail, until in his desperation he tried Lumos and then a hurried Nox as the light flashed, blinding, and made the dragon let out a startled sound.

For a moment, the dragon was still, wings beating on automatic as she confusedly shook her head. Then, as Harry wondered what he had done, the dragon let out infuriated sound, shook her head harder, ands then gave up trying to claw Harry from her head. Instead, she set out to a violent flight, rolling from side to side, shaking herself hard and then, to Harry's amazement, going as far as turning upside down in midair in attempt of shaking him off.

She was flying blind now, Harry realised. Whether it was the Lumos or the Nox that had caused it, he didn't know, but she was blinded. The pattern she flew in was haphazard and uncontrolled and as she twisted from side to side and let out small roars of anger, the wizard saw that they were not only getting closer to his goal – but flying right past it. Hogwarts, the Viaduct, the arena and everything else was left far behind as they flew, uncontrolled, over the forbidden forest.

Unbidden, a thought came to the frightened boy. He had wanted to hide in the trees, but the Firebolt was gone, broken. If he fell now – and survived somehow – how would he get back? Or worse what if they crashed and… Well, the likelihood of him surviving a crash on board the behemoth of a dragon were pretty small. He could die. No, scratch that, he was going to die. And it would happen soon – not in some unforeseeable future, not in hour or in a day or a week, or during the second or third task, _now_, probably within _minutes_.

He didn't want to die. He wanted to see Sirius again, to live with him. He wanted to tell Hermione thanks for helping with the task; if she hadn't forced him to learn Accio to summon his, he would've probably died already. He wanted to tell Skeeter off and tell Ron he was being a prat, and then forgive him because despite everything Ron was still his best mate, and he wanted to… he wanted to do so much more. He wanted to see foreign lands, and learn more magic and graduate and he wanted, he wanted…

He started casting spells again, now haphazard and only barely aware of what he was trying. Tripping and tickling hexes, one useless charm after another, most of the spells he had learned in Defence Against the Dark Arts, all useless, and finally spells he had only heard of but never managed to cast – never even tried to cast. The dragon was now tilting dangerously downwards and the tree tops were getting closer – and they were going fast, so bloody _fast_, and Harry's grip on the horns was sweaty, barely holding on.

The dragon swung, and they were now heading head first towards enormous ancient oak – if they hit it, the oak probably would give in before the dragon would but Harry would probably crash right into the tree or be thrown off, and the fall would without any pain of doubt kill him. Spell, any spell, magic had to be able to do something, he thought desperately, and tried and tried, with need and urge and want he had never before pushed into a spell. Something _had to work_, something Lupin or Moody had taught him, something had to make the dragon duck the tree, avoid it; all she had to do was just swing to the side, like she had done before, like she would've if she only would've seen the bloody tree…!

Letting out a confused sounding noise, the dragon ducked to the side. Harry, having not expected it at all, only barely managed to keep himself on the dragon's head as it sidled around the enormous oak, the tree's branches brushing hard along her neck and back and nearly taking Harry's arm off, but avoiding the complete impact. The dragon roared, as one of the branches broke and the gauged a long would along her back, but didn't stop, couldn't stop. Now too busy trying to hold on, Harry didn't notice that the quick move had been only a faint, momentary victory because now the dragon was heading downwards in sharp, terrifying angle.

The sight of the ground, a strange clearing in middle of the forest, coming right at them froze Harry completely and he only hung there, hugging an enormous white horn of the dragon, and handle of his Holly wand digging into his palm painfully. His mind went completely blank with the upcoming disaster, no spells popped up to his head, no attempts to survive, nothing, he was completely unmoving and empty-headed for one crucial moment.

There were stones on the clearing, he could see. Enormous boulders, long and oddly shaped, in a circle of sorts. It reminded him a bit of the pictures he had once seen of Stonehenge. They were coming up fast.

That woke Harry only long enough for the panic to return with a vengeance, but he had only enough time to hold his wand, to open his mouth, no spell in mind only terrified plea for _something_ that would do _anything_. The magic was alive and wild with his terror and desperation and that of the dragon, who seemed to sense the danger but was as helpless as Harry was to stop it, and together they crashed down, with the dragon's blood trickling down its neck and onto Harry's robes and Harry's terrified magic whirling feebly around them both.

The impact was earth shattering, but only lasted for a split of a moment before everything faded to blissful darkness.

x

She was beautiful sitting there, in nothing, red hair floating like fire, green eyes glowing. "This isn't right," she said, and words nearly made Harry crumble – they were not the ones he had hoped to hear his mother say to him, when he would finally get the chance to see her.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed, reaching and lifting him up, up from the bottom of nothing and to her lap, really like a mother would've. "Many things go wrong right here. It wasn't meant to happen," she explained, pressing her lips to his cheek. "So many things. When the time comes I will wring Albus's neck for allowing you to be entangled in that tournament, it wasn't meant to be. For that matter, I will wring his neck for ever allowing the tournament to be played out the way it was at all – it was buried for a reason. And you, oh, you were never meant to fight dragons."

"I'm sorry," he answered, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was apologising for. Everything, maybe. Her death, his father's death, for the tournament and for the dragon, for crashing down and dying. He hadn't wanted to die. He didn't want to die, but here he was – and it was strange. He though he might be happy, seeing her. Maybe his father was there too? And yet, like she said, it wasn't right. It felt… wrong.

"It's alright, sweetheart," she murmured, her arms warm around him. "It's not your fault." She sighed heavily and looked down to him, eyes compassionate and alight with warmth and knowledge. "You're not dead, sweetheart. But soon it will be as good as," she said, stroking a hand up and down his back. She let out a sound, mix between a chuckle and a snort. "You inherited your father's affinity for trouble. I don't know how good or a bad thing that is – maybe without it, this would've never happened. Or maybe, you would've simply died. I suppose it doesn't matter."

"I'm not dead?" Harry asked, surprised.

"No. You are… lost, but not dead. Not yet," she agreed and sighed again, lifting her hand and stroking his cheek with her fingers. "I am not here," she said suddenly, making his stomach drop. "I'm a memory, sweetheart. Albus told you some, didn't he? In your first year. I am here," she placed her hand over his chest. "An imprint of myself in you. Accidental magic on my part, but powerful. I've been trying to look out after you. But I'll be gone soon, completely. It's all I can do to keep you alive, and it will wear me out completely. I imagine it will wear you out too."

"Mum," Harry whispered, not quite understanding, but feeling the truth in her worlds. He could feel it _in there_, her emotions. And something else too, something in the back of his head. Something strange and foreign and yet growing more familiar. A change. "What will happen to me?"

She smiled, sad and solemn, and kissed his forehead. "The dragon and you crashed into an old magical site. It was made long before Hogwarts, long, long ago. I've only seen it once, during my seventh year as part of my Charms studies. Ancient Celts did magic there, or so people think nowadays. It is part of the reason why Hogwarts was build where it is – both the school and the site sit on magical hot spot of sorts," she said. "Magic like that never fades – the side is still what it was when it was build, it's just that for eons now no one has had any idea what it was for, exactly."

Harry said nothing, just closed his eyes and leaned his cheek to her shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was strange, but he wasn't scared. He was actually oddly reassured by the whole thing, but then, sitting in your mother's lap probably had that effect on everyone. Like there was nothing that could break through the secure protection of her arms, not yet, not for a while.

"Your magic, the dragon's blood, all that chaotic energy activated the site," she said then, her voice rumbling beneath his ear. "Not like it was supposed to, of course not, but something was opened and you… you fell into it, with the dragon." She shook her head and pulled back, to look at him. "I am drawing all the power I can to make sure you survive, to take you somewhere where you can live, where you will fit. It will drain me, it will probably drain your magic and the dragon too no doubt. But I don't know what's on the other side. I am trying, it might be something same or different… or it might be nothing. _I don't know_."

Harry frowned and then nodded, looking down. "It's okay. Thank you for trying," he said quietly, looking at her hand on his chest. Her fingernails were pale, a little long. Pretty.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered and pulled him to her chest again. "I love you very much. Your father did too, you were the greatest source of pride in his life. Whatever happens, remember that, alright? Remember that and be strong. Live, however you can. For us."

He nodded, not quite sniffing but not far from it. His eyes were getting blurry. "I love you too, mum," he whispered brokenly to her chest, hugging her tight.

Then she was gone, and he was falling again.

x

Harry woke up to the smell of forest – moss and trees, leafs and pine needless and water. The dream of his mother was fading from his head, and for a split of a moment his heart thumped wildly with the memory of falling to the circle of ancient stones, before he realised that he wasn't falling anymore – that he was still, lying on his side, and feeling heavy and clumsy. Alive, all in all.

He sighed heavily with relief, and then froze as the sigh brought forth the smell of ash and small mist of smoke, that under his wide eyes slithered into the green foliage. His mind sat still for a long moment just staring, confused and uncomprehending, before he dared to carefully lift his head a little. It was a heavy, clumsy move, and nearly sent him falling to his side again as what should've been simple, small shift, brought his head several feet up, and to the level of lowest tree branches.

Harry didn't get the time to try and figure out what that meant, exactly, when he felt something on his neck dislodge and slither down. Reflex made him lift his hand – or what he thought was his hand anyway – and stop the fall of the strange, loose object. As it halted by the crook of his arm, he looked down, and stared.

There, on the forearm of dark, scaly arm, lay his own lifeless body, looking impossibly small and fragile and half broken, loose limbed and lax in his unconsciousness. And yet, the arm, the _foreleg_, cradling the body felt like _it_ was _his_, while the body lying there, in his champion's robes with half bent glasses loosely hanging on his nose, felt like a foreign object.

Harry stared, and then, hardly daring to move, lowered the forearm and the body on it, carefully easing the limp form to the mossy ground. He had no way of knowing if the body was alive or unconscious and what it all meant – because, as slowly as his mind was turning, he did understand this. It was strange, impossible, _incredible_, but he was somehow…

Or maybe he wasn't. He had no way of knowing – he couldn't see himself. Looking down to the foreleg, Harry glazed up and down it. Talons, those he knew, they had tried to kill him. And the rough scaling, like shapely but sharp rocks in a neat pattern, he had scampered over it what felt like a little while ago. And the forearm gave way to an elbow and upper arm and shoulder, and as Harry watched, horrified ands fascinated and still curiously quiet-minded, his head turning in an odd angle that felt strange and natural all at once, he saw them. The wings, one lying a little loose on his other side, other sitting tucked almost neatly to his side and between them long bloody gauge, no longer bleeding but immediately more painful now that he was aware of it.

But he couldn't look away from the wings, which shuddered as he stared at them, and what felt like a lightning bold ran through Harry. In awkward move he was suddenly on his feet, wings shaking, tail curling out from where it had dug in, halfway buried in moss. There were branches and dirt stuck in the spikes of his tail, the longest end spike that gave Hungarian Horntails their name having skewered what looked like a small tree trunk.

Hungarian Horntail, Harry thought, standing there on what felt like on his feet and palms and yet not because in dragon's body it was a natural way to stand. He _was_ the Hungarian Horntail. The beast that had been chasing him, trying and nearly succeeding to kill him… he _was_ the dragon! And his own body was, was…

Harry turned to look down again, to the loose form lying on the forest floor, so tiny, smaller than a mouse from this perspective. He swallowed, cold feeling uncurling in his stomach, and lowered his head for a closer look. Was he dead? Had his mind somehow jumped from one body to another? What had his mother said in the dream – he couldn't remember, something about the dragon dying, and yet… that was his body, plain and simple, lying there. Glasses and scar and all. The wand was gone, though, as were all the fragments of his Firebolt, and yet it was him.

And yet he was the dragon?

Feeling dizzy with the sheer strangeness of his own thoughts, Harry lay back down, letting out an inhuman grunt as he did. He couldn't think, all his thoughts could do was hopelessly flitter around what he was seeing and not quite believe it. He felt _so strange_, big and clumsy and heavy and just foreign. He could feel the wings, the tail, he could almost move them, and it felt so odd. His _neck_ felt unnaturally long, his face strange. And as he moved his tongue, it was a strange feeling, made only stranger by the enclosure of fangs around it.

Was he dead? Was he alive? He wasn't sure. He felt alive, but his body was… not his, and his own was on the ground – and he didn't dare to touch it, not to even check if it was even _alive_ because he was so big now, he had _talons_ and _horns_, and what if he accidentally killed himself with one wrong stroke of his hand – his foreleg? Forepaw? Whatever it was.

Confused and suddenly feeling very alone, Harry lowered his head beside the body lying on the moss, and whined. It was a low, rough sound, and it released another cloud of dark smoke into the air, washing over the pale face of the small human form on the ground – and only in hindsight, Harry remembered how bad dragon breath had smelled, like sulphur and fire and burning, and hurriedly he lifted his head, not wanting to breath on the body again because what if the body breathed in, and choked on the dragon breath?

The moment of panic was sharp and strong – and ended abruptly, as his vision split open and he started to couch. Harry flailed, confused, because he was coughing and there was the smell of sulphur he had been fearing, and yet he _wasn't_ at the same time. And suddenly, he could feel the moistness of the ground seeping through his _robes_, that he had a bruise on his side, and how was that possible, because dragons couldn't wear robes, and he hadn't been bruised – except there was the gauge on his back, and he felt that too, that and the bruise and the fact that he had lost a shoe somewhere and –

Harry opened his eyes – even while his eyes were already open. His vision was perfect and yet it was also blurry, his glasses were askew, crooked. He straightened them, confused and grateful that, though the metal was bent from the middle, at least the glasses hadn't cracked. Then looked up _and_ down at himself.

In a moment of strange double vision, the wizard and the dragon stared at each other and, somehow, Harry was _both of them_ all at once.

He gasped and growled through two different mouths, and suddenly the aches and pains made themselves felt. His side hurt just below his arm, his back hurt just between his wings, his head hurt, his stomach hurt, jus joints and his bones ached as two bodies worth of pains assaulted him. Groaning through two mouths, one soft and another rough and inhuman, Harry curled in on himself. He had hit his head on something and feel of blood in his hair was the last thing the human body felt, before it fell into unconsciousness again, hurting too much to manage.

Suddenly, Harry was _one_ again, the dragon only. Swallowing and faltering, Harry lifted his Horntail's head from where he had tucked it in pain, under his wing, and looked down to the human body, now lying on it's side, curled up.

He still didn't quite know what was going on, or how it had happened – or how in Merlin's name it was possible – but one thing was sure. He was in trouble. A lot and lot of trouble. Not just as dragon and as human, but as _him_, because he was two and one and all the while his human body probably had a concussion and while he didn't know much about medicine, he could guess how bad that was. He had no idea what he could do to help himself, but at least he was still, somehow, conscious enough to try.

Now little less afraid of touching his own human body, Harry gently pried it off the ground with as careful move as he could manage, and lifted the body – and quite bit of moss and dirt with it – back to his front leg. The forest floor was cold and moist, and probably not good for a concussed human, he reasoned, and awkwardly supported the limp body into the crook of his elbow, where it would stay warm. He even went as far as to try and unfold his wing to work as a shelter from the cool air. It wasn't much, but maybe… maybe it would keep him from dying of cold, or getting one, or something, anything.

He did it just in time – just a moment later the heavy clouds above, which he hadn't even noticed so far, broke open and it started to rain.

xx

So I have these weird ideas. Plus a great big thing for Dragon!Harry in all possible forms. This is/was/might be a sort of Temeraire Crossover idea, starting about 11 (or maybe less, but still several) years or so before the start of His Majesty's Dragon, but who knows. These things come and go.

my apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


	44. Seeker, SH x HP cross, sorta

Warnings; Vampires, Magicians, Werewolves, etcetc. Has no HP in it, actually. AU Sherlock thing-to-be-a-crossover, will explain more on the bottom.

**Seeker**

"We're here, sir."

Mycroft glances up from the folder he had been leafing through and then out of the car's window. While he had been absorbed in the reports, his assistant had already parked in front of the 221B Baker Street, going as far as to turn off the engine. Shaking his head, the man smiles faintly and closes the file. It was a bit presumptuous of her, to think that they were staying long enough for her to turn off the engine, but she was probably right. It might take some time to convince Sherlock, if he would deign to be convinced, which isn't exactly given.

"Good," he says, and wraps the rubber band around the folder to keep the files from spilling out. As he reaches for his umbrella, flicking the binding around it open, he looks through the glass between the back and front of the car. "While I deal with him, could you kindly look into arranging a gathering with the Council? Preferably I would like to have one within twenty four hours – today would be the best."

"It will be done sir," she answers, leaning back to glance at him over her shoulder. "Will I extend invitation to heads of Lycurgus and Bleddyn? They're having issues at the moment, and might cause trouble."

Mycroft considers it and then nods. "You might as well," he says. "If they're not involved, they will raise a fuss about it later, no doubt, and at this moment I have no time to deal with that." Opening the car door, he pops the umbrella open and then stands up, folder tugged under his arm. "Also, look into arranging a private meeting with Jean and her people," he adds with a mild grimace. "Today, if at all possible."

"I will see to it," she promises and looks him up and down in the way she always does, like checking that he is dressed properly and has no stains on his person. In reality, she was checking the bugs, the hidden cameras and of course the _other_ security measures she, as his personal assistant and head of security, made him wear. She nods after a moment, satisfied, and turns to look ahead again. "Good luck, sir."

Mycroft sighs. The fact that she says it means that, more than likely, he is going to need it. Closing the car door and resting the umbrella's handle against his shoulder, shielded underneath the pitch black of its water proof fabric, he looks up. There are lights on in the flat Sherlock shares with one John Watson, but that isn't necessarily a good sign. Sherlock is difficult to handle most times, and the most difficult is when he's freshly awakened and in full strength. It was always easier to handle Sherlock in the evening, when he was tired, lethargic and bored – and thus open to suggestions.

It's a trick Mycroft can't use too often, though – if he always shows up when Sherlock is just going to sleep, to make use of that small little window of opportunity, Sherlock would soon pick it up and never see him in that weak moment. Mycroft doesn't have the time to wait, in any case, so he merely sighs, steels himself, and prepares for a fight.

Sherlock's landlady greets him with her usual enthusiastic warmth, taking him by the elbows, urging him to bend down and then kissing his cheeks. "Mycroft, how lovely to see you!" she enthuses at him, stepping aside to let him in and close the door behind him. "And a good time too!" she adds, as he closes the umbrella. "He's been absolutely unbearable all morning – torturing that poor violin of his, and on John's day off too. It's a wonder the good doctor can stand it."

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow at that, before remembering that John had gotten a job just the previous week, at Lycaon's District Hospital. He really must be worn thin to have forgotten that, even if for a moment. "I'll see if I can make my brother a little less inclined to torture innocent ears," he assures, glancing up the stairs where he can hear the tortures shrieks of Sherlock's Stradivarius coming. He winces slightly. Sherlock is unspeakably good violin player, but only when he wishes to be – and when he doesn't, he could be inhumanly bad one.

"Please," Mrs. Hudson says with heartfelt tone before smiling and patting Mycroft's upper arm. "I will bring some tea up, shall I?"

"That would be most kind, thank you," he nods, and as she pats his shoulder again and then turns to head to her own flat, Mycroft turns to face the stairs up. Time to face the music – not that what Sherlock is doing can be called that, really.

The flat Sherlock lives in looks, save for few details, the exact same it had the previous time Mycroft had been around. Sherlock's surroundings very rarely change, even when they seem to. Very few know it, but mild OCD is one of Sherlock's many problems, and though he is _master_ at combating that particular problem, it still hangs there, ever present. Sherlock's surroundings are thus a controlled chaos, with his ever present urge for everything to be where it should be fighting with his innate disorder – and so, the flat is in perpetual state of _mess_. Very artistic mess where every piece of litter had it's place, but still, a mess.

"Oh, god," Sherlock moans at the sight of him, while Mycroft notes the few differences – John's laptop on the tea table and not in the table in the corner where he usually writes, the tea cups left beside it, the pillow which was on the wrong side of the couch, and of course, the violin case which was open and lying at Sherlock's feet instead of being underneath the table where it usually is. "Just what this day needs. A visitation from the lord master and commander himself. Tell me, Mycroft, what civil war drives you here this time."

"It's delightful to see you too, Sherlock. You look well. New haircut?" Mycroft answers, while John peeks out from the kitchen. He has to smother the urge to smile at the brown haired man – the doctor is wearing an apron and yellow rubber gloves, and the reason of Sherlock's irritation is clear. John's apparently making an attempt at cleaning some of Sherlock's artistic mess. Not that it would make much a difference, of course, the moment John's eye would stray Sherlock would return everything to the way it was before, but it is perhaps best that the good doctor doesn't know that. Hope lives eternal only until it's proven wrong, after all.

"Morning, Mycroft," the doctor says, offering a close lipped smile. He never shows teeth to Mycroft, fact which had in the end endeared the man to him. "I've got a bit of a mess going on here, so I won't be able to offer some tea, but maybe some snacks?"

"Good morning, doctor Watson. I believe your landlady has the tea department taken care of, so it is quite alright," Mycroft says, swinging his closed umbrella down from his shoulder and then taking seat in the couch – careful not disturb the pillows too much, the twitch under Sherlock's eyebrow is bad enough as it is.

"Alright then. I'm just going to," John points back at the kitchen. "Call me if you need me to break you two up."

"It's quaint how you think you could," Sherlock answers cuttingly.

"Don't tempt me, or I just might try and clean your bedroom while I'm at this," the doctor answers and ducks back into the kitchen, closing the door as he does. He is a quick learner, doctor Watson. Having not received an invitation to join the discussion, he had immediately realised that he was dismissed from it, and made surface attempt of not intruding upon it. Of course, the door would normally do very little against the man's expert hearing, but Sherlock was nothing if not good at his trade and the normally flimsy door is as secure as the best of bank vaults.

Smiling, Mycroft turns to face the very expert of door security, to find Sherlock glaring at him. His smile widens – Sherlock is always glaring at him. "I have a job for you," he says without preamble.

"Not interested," Sherlock answers, turning to the Stradivarius and dragging the bow across the strings, a horrible dissonant noise screeching out as he does. "I am too busy with other things."

Giving the man a look, Mycroft opens the folder. Sherlock has no cases at the moment, and hasn't had any in a while and they both know it. "I'm sure you've heard of the Circle of Evocatio?" he asks calmly, pronouncing the last word as it's meant to be pronounced and not looking up from the files. He doesn't need to look, to know that he's caught the younger man's interest.

"Group of two-bit magicians who perform so called summoning, videotape it, and then throw it out to the internet," Sherlock answers, and the roll of his eyes is clear in his tone of voice. "What about them?"

Mycroft glances up, lifting his eyebrows. "You cannot possibly expect me to believe that this is all you know," he says admonishingly.

"Obviously not," Sherlock mutters, wrapping his arms around the violin. "They usually summon, if that's what it can be called, for vampires. People, magicians or so they say, from alternate realities." Now his roll of eyes is very visible. "It's ludicrous to even think that they _could_. The whole thing is probably faked."

"Hm," Mycroft answers, and takes a picture from the folder, tree coloured picture with white circles overlapping, glowing purple against black ground, symbols and writing drawn all around them and inside them. He smiles, as Sherlock's eyes sharpen and his mouth forms a firm line. "Ludicrous?" the elder man asks amiably.

"Give me that," Sherlock snaps, reaching out and taking the picture from his hands. His eyes flitter over the runes and symbols, reading the circle in way even Mycroft himself can't – he, after all, isn't a magician. "How did you get this?" Sherlock asks. "Don't they always burn the scenes?"

"They made the mistake of drawing this one on tile floor. Quality ceramic burns very badly," Mycroft smiles, leaning back a little. "Of course the circle itself was gone by the time we got there, but the imprint was still there and strong enough that the PARA-officers on the scene could take some detailed pictures. After that, the Circle of Evocatio jumped up few notches on our list of priorities."

Sherlock doesn't answer immediately, just stares at the picture hard and long. "This is old," he then says. "At least three hundred years old. It's the sort of ritual no one knows how to make these days, and if I can't say what half of these symbols are, then I doubt many other could too. I bet they found some old writings and just copied this down, and got lucky. There is no way any of them has any actual _knowledge_ of this level."

"My thoughts exactly. The problem is, whether or not they know what they are doing, precisely, they are still doing it, and they are succeeding to some extend," Mycroft answers, and hands over the entire folder to Sherlock's now more eager hands. "From the videos we have the estimation of at least seven summoning so far. Mostly elderly and few disabled individuals, which indicates something about the limitations of the circle, but the fact remains. They are summoning people from alternate reality, magicians _or so they say_," he says, mimicking the younger man. "And they are selling those people to vampires."

Sherlock looks up, frowning, before looking back down to the folder and starting to quickly leaf through it. Mycroft waits quietly as he does, before Sherlock stops to read something in closer detail. "Is there any proof that they've actually _managed_ to summon a magician so far?" Sherlock asks. "I've seen some of those vids, and they don't look too magical to me, those people they've managed to bring through."

"That is our belief as well – that they are only trying, but falling short and instead they are summoning not only non-magical people, but fairly weak people. The sick and the elderly. Even if they are magical in one way or the other, not one of them was in their full strength," Mycroft agrees. "But if my experts are reading that circle at all right, it is designed to summon magicians – strong, powerful ones. And if they manage to actually live up to the promise of that circle…"

The younger man is quiet for a moment before settling the folder down to his lap. "Every vampire tribe in this side of Europe will be lining up to have them summon for them," he murmurs. "What is the worst case scenario?"

"Worst case scenario? I'm sure I don't need to tell you that," Mycroft says, but tells him anyway. "Who is the strongest British magician you know?"

Sherlock doesn't even need to think about it. "The Red," he answers. "Riddle, if he was still alive."

"Imagine a vampire, who would get the chance to drink from the Red," Mycroft says softly. He certainly has imagined that, several times, and it's not a pretty image. Jean of the Sanguini Clan was currently the strongest vampire in Britain, fourth strongest in Europe, and she with her five hundred years of age and Clan of half a hundred would be nothing in comparison to a vampire who had gotten the chance to drain the blood – and powers – of a magician that powerful.

As things stand normally, there is no fear of that. A magician that strong can more than protect themselves. Sherlock is no where near the strength of the Red, but even he is more than capable of dealing with most vampires – and he has good enough reputation that no vampire bothers to try. It's the same with most magicians. But with the summoning it's a whole different thing, a magician drawn out of his or her element and surprised… they wouldn't have much a chance to defend themselves.

"I need the Circle of Evocatio stopped before that has the chance to happen," Mycroft says. "The last thing Britain needs is a vampire like that."

Sherlock doesn't answer at first, looking instead down to the files. Mycroft waits patiently, fairly sure of his success. Sherlock is individual and difficult and usually against everything Mycroft is for if not any other reason then out of principle – but still, Sherlock is no fool. The power balance in Britain is delicate thing, and even Sherlock knows what a bad thing it would be to tip it.

The silence is eventually broken by a knock that sounds in the room and Mrs. Hudson bustles in with tea tray and a bright smile. "It's alright, Mrs. Hudson. My _brother_ was just leaving," Sherlock says before she has the chance to set the tray down or start serving. He snaps the folder shut, and looks up to Mycroft. "Just this once, I'll take the case. But I expect to be well paid."

"You will be, naturally," Mycroft assures, and stands up. "Kindly keep me informed of your process and, please, hurry. If they stick to their schedule, there will be another summoning today. This is not something you can dawdle with."

"I never dawdle," Sherlock answers with a glare and snaps his fingers sharply at the door, which opens a little wider in answer. Not a very subtle a hint, but Sherlock can be very unsubtle when he wants to. "Goodbye Mycroft. So lovely for you to stop by, but I'm afraid I'm terribly busy and will have no more time to waste on you. I'm sure you can find something else to do, though. Look into starting on a diet, perhaps."

Mycroft flashes him with a admonishing look. "No need to be childish, Sherlock," he says, before turning to Mrs. Hudson. "I'm sorry I have no chance to taste your wonderful tea, but I'm afraid I really must go."

"Oh, alright. It was wonderful to see you Mycroft, you really ought to stop by more often," she sighs and gives Sherlock a look, resting her hands at her hips. "Must you always chase your brother away before he has had the chance for more than a sit down? That is not very brotherly of you, Sherlock, really…"

The rest of her words fade away, as Mycroft makes his way downstairs and out, opening the umbrella as he does and then walking in it's shade back to the car. As he sits down and closes the door, his assistant turns the engine on, before looking at him over her shoulder. "The Council conference will be tomorrow at seven a.m., and you have meeting with Jean of Sanguini at nine p.m. today," she says. "Also, Lord Llyod has requested a meeting, I set it for nine thirty a.m. today. After that you have meeting with Lord Edwards of Prenatural Party – he wants to talk about the Mythical Creature Preservation Act, I believe."

Digging out his pocket watch, Mycroft flicks it open. He would have an hour until the first meeting. "That sounds suitable, thank you," Mycroft says, reaching out and taking the laptop that was wedged in a small enclosure beneath seat. "To the office then, if you would. And kindly make sure I have something to eat by the time I get there. I am getting quite peckish."

She glances him with sharp eyes, taking in his face and then nodding before turning to look ahead, phone already in one hand even as she easily changes gears and guides the car into the sluggish traffic. She's have it all arranged by the time they make the first turn – probably sooner.

While they start making their fairly slow way towards the office, Mycroft opens the latest of the Circle of Evocatio videos – in which the four magicians of the circle manage to summon a old man with white hair and messy beard, and look of utter horror in his eyes, when the vampires descend upon him.

As the blood spills across the summoning circle, Mycroft closes his eyes and grimaces.

xx

After I finished _Whispers in Corners_, I wanted to try another HP x SH crossover (with Harry x Mycroft pairing, obviously), since they were coming up somewhat nicely, This one was going to be written either completely from Mycroft's point of view, or point of view of the SH characters, since I was pretty harry centric in the previous two. Harry was going to be in this, though - he was going to be called by the Circle of Evocatio, and there was going to be hijinks. And Sherlock was going to be a consulting magician and John was going to be a werewolf, and Lestrade a sort of psychic, etc etc, and Mycroft... something too, but I don't want to spoil that one, in case I write this one day after all. I might, I had lovely plans.

Right now though I'm busy with the previous idea, _Alone Together_, so if I start writing this, it won't be until after I'm done with the 20-30 chapters of _Alone Together_.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	45. Harry Potter x Stargate crossover

Warnings; Death of characters, sorta. Harry Potter x Stargate cross

**Insert title here**

Harry waited, one knee lifted up and his chin resting on his palm, ever the image of a bored teenager even as he sat there, on the irritated molecules of the air above Voldemort's cooling body. Around him, everything was frozen; people stuck in between one motion and another, stilled between a step or a scream, some staring at Voldemort or something else near him, frozen in their attempts to try and see, discover the source of the blast that had taken the Dark Lord down. Even the air beneath Harry, the irritated molecules, were still, faint wisps of steam still in the air like brushstrokes on a canvas.

The entire scenes reminded him of a memory in a pensieve, in a way, except not because even those were in motion. No, it was more like he had stepped into a photograph – a muggle photograph, the sort that never moves. In a way it was just like that – exactly like that. He knew, without needing proof of any sort, physical or visual, that the world wasn't actually still. Bellatrix Lestrange, who stood closest to him and Voldemort, was moving, screaming and maybe waving a wand, _somewhere_, and Fenrir Greyback was no doubt running towards the castle, maybe there already. The steam and smoke rising from Voldemort curled and moved and soon faded away, when the effects of the impact that had scorched his robes and flesh cooled.

But not here, not in this. He was stuck in a afterimage of a moment – in the thin layer between one second and another, two curves in the patterns of flowing time, stuck. Waiting.

It was very interesting, in a strange, obscure way. As Harry waited, he let his eyes slide over the still scene around him. It was dark, so dark that he had barely been able to see… anything before. Especially not when everything had been in motion – when he had been in motion. When the entire _planet_ had been in motion. But now, nothing moved and he could look and take the details like he would take in the smallest little things in a photograph.

Bellatrix Lestrange had strange eyes – sort of purplish blue. Had she been a better woman, they would've been beautiful, but in their state of frozen horror and anger and something nameless, they are far from could've beens. The grass around them, so dark before, was actually green – there were some hints of dew in the blades, and in the light of a frozen spell the tiny droplets glimmered, striking contrast to the dark of a midnight all around.

Harry looked, noting things like flies in the air and rips in the robes of the Death Eater, that one of them had mismatched pair of boots and that some of the trees he could remember form his first year at Hogwarts had been cut down, only stumps remaining. There were hundred million of tiny little details he could look, the dirt under someone's fingernails or a burned patch of skin, strange stitches in their clothing or maybe something on the ground, upturned rock or a indent of a footstep in the moist ground, snapped of branches of young and old bushes, leaves trodden to the grass and moss…

But in the end, none of it was really that interesting. Lestrange had a mad look in her eyes and blood stain on her neck and lock of her hair has been cut off crudely and her robes need some repair and she hadn't been eating enough – and no, Harry didn't really care about any of it anymore. It was hard to, here, where even emotion sat still in his mind, like a solid lump of _doesn't__matter_.

He looked away, away from the ground and the people and the plants, and up. Hogwarts loomed in the distance, dark, gigantic shape lighted by flashes of light that had been caught in the photographic split-moment, just like the death eaters. It looked enormous and… vulnerable, like a shadow about to be chased out of existence by persistent candles. At the distance he could barely tell anything else of the place, but the dark outlines against even darker sky, but still, he remembered that it was beautiful in the sunlight. A fairytale castle, inhabited by young magicians. Things of bedtime stories.

He could go there, he supposed. It would be easy, crossing over the distance, and then he would be able to take a closer look, but… no. He knew what Hogwarts looks like – and whatever he could see there would make little difference. People were fighting, sure, but the fight's gone past him. He had been left behind by the battles, left in a lost moment, and all he could see would be old news.

Who knew, the battle might be over already, in the real time – though he wouldn't put any bets on the outcome. Voldemort's death wasn't the turning point he had thought it would be – no, it had only evened the playground and the rest was left for the others, for the… _common_ magicians. Between them, without Voldemort to lead or Harry to dash ahead, it could go any way.

"Well, now," a soft voice spoke from somewhere, next to him or behind him or maybe all around him, it was hard to say. "What a surprise you are."

Harry looked – not exactly away, his eyes were still directed towards Hogwarts, but it was different way of looking – and like that there was a man before him. Harry blinked, lifting his chin from his palm, still frozen in emotion but feeling something like curiosity nonetheless. He didn't know the man – it wasn't Dumbledore from the Kings Cross Station where Harry had taken not the obvious choice, nor the easy choice, but the _bizarrely__beautiful_ one. It wasn't anyone else he had ever met either, and he would've remembered here, where thinking was easy and fleeting. It was no one he knew. It was…

It was a fond memory of a city from long ago and a honourable, proudly thought of career as a scientist, it was feel of crystals and sight of stars and millions of millions of light years in single second, it was development of eons and a love of a woman and a family and a man and another family, and it was eternity – in shape of a man who wasn't as much man as it was just _man__shaped_.

The man shaped being smiled, kind and sharp like blade made of sunlight. "Well, let me have a look at you," he said, stepping forward and holding his hands out – holding himself out, reaching at Harry's each side like enclosing his being between them to _feel_. And that was exactly what it was, Harry realised, shifting a little with confusion, as the man shaped being looked and felt into him – felt every shred of him.

"Hm. Harry, is it?" the man said. "You may call me, hm… Lumos, I think will suit. Yes, you may call me Lumos, should you feel the urge to verbalise," he nodded more to himself than to Harry and then looked at him. "Do you know what you have done, Harry?"

Harry hesitated. He did, but… it was hard to say if what he thought he had done and what the man thought he had done were the same thing. Thoughtful, Harry looked around himself and then below him, to Voldemort who lay there, partially on his side with loose fingers still grasping a wand, other hand thrown to the side, burned and withered after pitiful attempt to shield the main body from the attack.

He had done what had needed to be done. And not just as Harry Potter, the Chosen one, the Boy Who Lived. But in terms of task to be completed – ignoring his own history with Voldemort, and just taking the Dark Lord himself into consideration.

Voldemort was a mad man – in so many levels, he was mad. Mad of mind and soul and spirit and magic, mad enough for his madness to preach his physical boundaries and leak away, away from him and to his followers through the Dark Marks that connected those people to him. Voldemort – and it was really _Voldemort_ because tom riddle was too mutated to be called alive, anymore – was mad in terms of existence. He had needed to be put down.

Granted, Harry was still sorting out how he had done it – and why, exactly, had he been arrested in a moment afterwards. Or how. But with his emotions arrested as well, it was hard to ponder – curiosity was a distant, insignificant thing here.

"I did…" Harry stared and stopped because what he had been meaning to say wasn't quite right and somehow, he couldn't say anything but what was _right_. "I did," he said eventually, and looked up again. "I acted." That seemed better explanation – entire course of a thought and knowledge and impulse and the eventual path from there to Voldemort's death, all in two words.

"Yes, you did," Lumos said, nodding slowly but not thoughtfully, or patronisingly, just acknowledging. "But before that," he then specified and waved a hand around them, not at the scene but the existence that was somehow out of existence. "This. And you," he added. "Do you understand it?"

"No," Harry answered, this time without thought or hesitation. He knew, though. There had been a ethereal place, that had looked very much like Kings Cross Station to him. Dumbledore had been there – or maybe it had been just his own imagination, it was hard to say now. And there had been only so many ways out. Dumbledore had offered him two – go forward and die, or go back and live. Harry had seen a third way out – he had went up.

"There is a spark in you – in all creatures, in fact, but in you it has always been very bright," Lumos said, reaching out and patting Harry's chest. "Not quite here, but in your mind, and soul, your magic and timeline, your bones and genes and your evolution and development as a human being, and as a wizard. The spark is more a moment than anything else, the moment just before your last inhale. A bright, shining moment. Do you see?"

Harry didn't really, but he could remember it, vaguely and sharply all at once. "Yes," He said, and slid down from the still, irritated molecules, and to the still, cool ones of the ground. It felt impetuous, now, to be sitting in midair – childish. "It was the moment I realised I could fly," he added.

"Do you know what that entails?" Lumos asked, still kindly as needle of flame. "Do you know what it means to fly away from death and life in such a manner?

"Not really," Harry answered, shaking his head.

"Well, there are interfering factors – the science of it is fragile in best of circumstances," the man mused, leaning back a little. "Just a spark – or flight of spirit – isn't quite enough. You need a certain sort of spiritual calm, acceptance of all things and then distance from them. And, of course, that certain elevation of the body, which you have naturally," he added, glancing Harry from top to toes and then looking away, to the other, frozen magicians around them.

"These people have that too, that elevation. Magic, as you call it, comes from it, from that elevation. Your great inheritance," Lumos mused, sounding a little sad now, before shaking his head and turning to Harry. "To use your analogy, magic makes you able to fly, a calm spirit makes you capable of embracing the air as it is and, finally, the spark of moment, that split second before your last breath, is your lift. If you have all three, you soar."

"Okay," Harry agreed. He could see that – that was what happened. He had magic, his mind was calm, especially so after he and Dumbledore had talked, and then there had been that moment, that decision that he couldn't quite explain. Why had he flewn out of the King's Cross, instead of walking back or boarding a train?

Because he had been able to.

"What does it mean?" Harry asked, and got a look of pleased surprise from the man who, he realised, hadn't expected him to be able to inquire.

"Do you know what enlightenment means, Harry? There are many religions on Earth who strive towards enlightenment. Many wizards and witches do too – some of them even achieve it," Lumos said. "That is what you are now – or, what you could be, at this moment. Enlightened – or Ascended, as some call our kind."

"Our kind," Harry repeated and looked at the man more closely – at the way he wasn't really man at all or living or like anything Harry had ever seen. He was more like a… a great blur of power, of energy, surrounded by the illusion of a body. "Am I like you?" Harry asked, looking down at himself. He looked physical to his own eyes. But was he a blur too, with just a cloak of human features drawn over him?

"Not quite. You could be, and for a moment there, you almost were," Lumos agreed and sighed. "Oh, ascension. It entails so many things. Eternity and power, the vastness of universe and all of time – and all the knowledge of those who came before us, and those who join us. The ascended are many, they are whole, and they are individual, they are same and different and they are on the great path of time, moving forever forward, as the universe turns."

"And this by taking flight at the right moment," Harry said, not at all convinced.

"Well, the moment of Ascension is more difficult to achieve than you think. You were fortunate, with luck of one on hundreds of thousands of millions and more," Lumos said, almost chuckling. "But that is not an issue, not right now. The fact of the matter is that it happened to you. One might even call it spontaneous ascension, if one wished to be humorous."

"Has a funny ring to it," Harry agreed, gaining a smile for his words.

"Quite, however, that is just the start of it, the pinprick of a beginning," Lumos said and looked long at Harry. It was a strange, endless and ageless look, not as much assessing this time as it was holding, like a invisible cage. "The ascended, among many many other things, are powerful. The people who wish to join our ranks just for that power are numerous, in fact. But that part of us is… superficial at best – a feature. In those plains of existence where we Ascended roam, such power is nothing but means of expressing one's self. But here, on these physical, these mortal plains, what we have is _godly_."

"Oh," Harry said, thinking. It had been ridiculously easy, to kill Voldemort. He had barely had to put an effort to it. He had needed no wand, no spell, just outstretched hand and…

And it hadn't been just Voldemort. It had been all shards of him too – even if only so many of those still remained. All of what had been Voldemort and had kept him to life was gone – the remaining Horcruxes were just as dead as the man who had made them.

"Harry," Lumos said slowly. "Our kind have rules about that sort of thing," The man looked deep into Harry's eyes – though whether it was actually gaze was hard to tell, it wasn't as if energy had eyes, even if his illusionary shell did. "What you did is murder – the worst sort of murder there is."

"Not, if you know what he's like," Harry argued. "Voldemort is a murderer himself. Worst than any other."

"What he is like, what he was like, doesn't matter," Lumos said, gentle. "Even if he was the worst, most heinous and cruel human being ever to walk upon this planet, the fact is what is it. What you did is utter and unforgivable abuse of the power you have. To us such a thing is an act akin to a human such as the one you were squashing a bug beneath his feet, and all the worse because of it."

"He deserved to die," Harry said, and then added. "If he had lived, he'd just be killing other people."

"Yes, but that is the matter of humans, not of the Ascended," Lumos said, reaching out and grasping Harry by the shoulder. "Let me show you what you did, and what it could be."

And he did. It wasn't exactly like a memory or a thought – it was more like a small reality uncoiling into existence inside Harry's mind, with all the small parts and all the tiny, important possibilities popping in and out until it was formed clear and bright. And there, in that small reality with it's small world and small people, Harry could see what the power like he now had could do. He could kill any human he liked, anywhere, any time, and he saw _how_ he could do it. And not just that, but he could swipe them down like ants on table surface, rearrange the countries and continents like they were pits of cloth, a tablecloth to be changed. He could squash the entire world in his hand, of something _like_ a hand, and it would barely exhaust him.

And many had – many, many had. Ascension hadn't been around forever and those first ones so long ago had went mad with it so easily. And they did it precisely because it was easy – easy to kill and control, rearrange and, in simplest terms, to _play__god_. And so those who had started, had ran away with it, ran _mad_ with it in ways Voldemort never could've. They had controlled and shaped, formed and remade, twisted and turned, changed entire civilisations for what they thought was _for__the__best_.

That itself wasn't as bad – what was bad, was the roar of crying, muffled beneath it all. Beings, sentient living beings of short life spans and physical bodies, crying out, helpless and distant, insignificant. Entire world's full of people, screaming in unspeakable agony.

"When that is what we can do – when that is so _easy_ and so _simple_ and so _tempting_ to do…" Lumos said, and the small reality was gone from Harry's mind, and there was the frozen photograph of a moment instead. "The risk is too great, Harry. And ascension is about enlighten of one's self. Not about power, or control of any mortal, physical matter. Not even one such as this," he added, pointing at Voldemort's dead body.

Harry said nothing, still shaking after the vision, or feeling, whatever it had been. His emotions were still muffled and thank heavens for that. He could still feel the eons of domination, rolling on and twisting natural evolution out of it's course. He could see it, now, and it was a horrible thing to see.

What did Voldemort, a being of only some haphazard number of decades, matter in comparison to millions of years?

"I see," Harry said, swallowing. Had he done nothing, Voldemort would have still died. Maybe not that day, maybe not that century, but nothing that was physical could remain forever – and Voldemort would've never given up his physical body. In light of that, what had he done? What difference had it made?

"No," he said then, and frowned, looking up. "My friends – my _human_ friends. They're save from him now. It might mean little in the terms of a planets or a race's existence, but it means something to them," he pointed at the shadow of Hogwarts. "And it matters to me."

"Yes, perhaps," Lumos said, and now he looked disappointed. "It is still what one would call a crime. And among ascended, crimes such as this cannot go unpunished. You understand that, now."

Harry did, and he confirmed it with a nod. He knew, he felt it in his soul now. If one could be allowed to kill a mortal, physical being just like that, then all could do it do – and after that, why not do more? It was easy to slip and slip was all it would take to derail the self control of those beings that Lumos was one of. It couldn't be allowed.

And so, he would be punished for killing the man who had killed his parents. It was an odd thought, but… he could understand.

"Alright," he sighed and looked away. "What will be my punishment?"

"Hm. Well, that is still under consideration," Lumos answered. "You will not be allowed to remain as you are, or keep your ascended powers, obviously – you will be descended back into a physical being. However… what you did is too much, and we cannot just return you to your former existence, as if nothing had happened."

Harry frowned and looked at the man again. "You'll take away my magic?" he asked slowly.

"There is some talk of that," Lumos agreed. "Without it you will not be able to ascend on your own again, which is a notion that would appease many of us. However, magic is something you were born with, as a human being, and the concept of stripping a living creature of those gifts his own evolution granted him with is a… delicate issue."

The man shook his heads. "However, a punishment is called for, and merited. Especially so, when you do not regret."

"I don't. I won't," Harry said firmly. The emotion stillness was fading now, though he couldn't say if it was because of his own strength of emotion, or because he had been released from that bind. It didn't matter – what he felt was firm. Voldemort would kill no one else again – he had made sure of that. His friends were safe from the monster, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, everyone. He would not regret that.

"Yes. A punishment is merited," Lumos said, looking at him sadly and then looking away, and beyond the still moment around them – the prison, Harry realised, that the Ascended had enclosed around him at the moment of his crime. Lumos, unlike Harry, could still see the greater reality beyond it, and the other Ascended there.

"We will return you to your physical life and strip you of what would make you able to Ascend, and banish you from this world," Lumos then said.

"B-banish me?" Harry asked, horrified. "From _Earth_?"

"You committed murder. The punishment cannot fit the crime, but it must be severe," Lumos said, before his hard eyes softened somewhat at the look on Harry's face. "But, as your physical life and success greatly relies on your magical talents, we will not unarm you completely. You can keep one power that your kind has."

"Then I will keep spell casting," Harry said immediately.

"What sort of spell casting?" the man asked. "Do you wish to keep the ability to summon objects to you? Or perhaps the one that allows you to siphon water and pour it out of the air into a cup? Or perhaps you would wish to keep a power that allows you to turn a twig into a rod? You may only keep one, so choose carefully."

"Just one? You mean, I can keep just one type of spell?" Harry asked, a little disbelieving now. What kind of wizard would he be, with one spell? And what would he choose, how could he make the choise of the handy ability of being able to repair things, or the expelliarmus that had saved his life so many times? And what about something like apparation? It was magic too, if he chose a spell, would he be able to apparate?

Probably not – and it would be insidiously slow, making his way trough life without being able to instantly move from place to place as he chose.

"One type of spell craft, one type of ability, nothing else," Lumos said, and at Harry's stricken look he smiled gently. "You may take a moment, to think about it."

Harry nodded, thinking hard, harder than he had ever thought before. There was no escaping this, he knew that, felt it, and the choice would determine his entire _life_ from here on. "Is it… is it just my own spells and such I can choose from?" he asked then, thinking back to Dumbledore's ability to conjure things out of thin air. That, he thought, could be an ability he could survive with. "Or all abilities wizards have?"

Lumos hesitated, looking at nothing for a moment, conversing with the other Ascended, before looking at Harry again. "All abilities wizards have," he said then. "But only those – you cannot choose an ability that no wizard has ever been able to do."

"Okay," Harry said, and thought again. Conjuring would be useful – though he still couldn't help but think that he would be chained, without being able to apparate. But maybe he could still fly? Except… brooms tended to work badly for some wizards of lesser talent. Maybe he could choose Voldemort's ability to fly? No, no, he didn't want that, as cool as it could've been, it was only use for moving, outside that he would be useless and helpless. Maybe some of his defence spells would suit? Shield charm, maybe? Though how many situations would he need a shield charm in?

And… he would be banished. From _Earth_. He knew now that there were other worlds with life – he could feel it. He would be left to one of those no doubt. It was impossible to say what sort of world, now, and he doubted Lumos would tell him. What sort of ability could he use in another world?

For a moment he still leaned on the conjuration. It wasn't actual conjuration, of course, the objects created that way vanished eventually and never had the solidity of the actual thing, but if you could create something, even if temporarily, it could make his life easier. And then, he thought darkly, get him into trouble. He could see the speciality of Earth, now. Humanity of earth wasn't exactly unique, but wizards were, magic was. Very few – if any – other worlds would have that. If he went about creating things that then vanished in a world that had never seen magic before…

There was ways to abuse that, and then be abused in return by those he would've eventually tricked. Conjuration could've been good, but he needed something else – something that would help him survive. And, if the place he was bad or hostile or suspicious of strangers, he needed something that would maybe help him blend in.

Metamorphmagus ability, then? Or animagus? He closed his eyes, thinking hard. Both had their merits – if only he could have them both…

Maybe he could.

"Self-transfiguration," he said, and looked up to Lumos. "I want to be able to change my shape into anything and anyone I want."

The ascended lifted a single eyebrow at him. "Anything and anyone?" he asked thoughtfully, leaning back a little. "Are you certain?"

Harry hesitated and then nodded. If he could turn into any beast or any person, there was no place he couldn't go. Within reason. "Yes," he said.

Lumos considered him for a long moment before nodding in turn. "Very well," he said. "No magician currently has this talent, we are aware, they have one or the other but not both… but it is only the matter of time and development until they do, so you may have it. It will bring you only closer to your body and physicality, and further away from what would ascend you."

"Well, that's good for you," Harry answered, folding his arms. He had never wanted to ascend so it was no big deal for him to lose that, but the loss of magic was something different and he couldn't help but wonder if he ought to have gone with conjuration instead.

No. He had made the right choice, he's certain of that, no matter what his nerves said. "Where will you banish me?" he asked then, wondering. It was no use arguing that either, he knew it was unavoidable, could feel it. All there was left to ponder was what it would be like. Would he left there as he is, or worse? It would be nice to have some things with him – clothing, et cetera. "And… is there any chance I could see what happens here before you do?" he asked, waving a hand at the scene around them.

Lumos eyed him, thoughtful, before nodding. "We will banish you to Abydos – it is the closest to Earth in the gate system. What you do after that is your business," he said, and waved his hand. "But there is no hurry, we can observe the events here, before the inevitable."

"Thank you," Harry nodded, his shoulders slumping a little with relief. At least he would have that, and wouldn't be left in doubt about what had happened. Where he would be left, though, that didn't matter. It could be any place from Mars to Andromeda Galaxy, and it would make no difference. It would still be another world, and he still wouldn't be able to return to earth – the Ascended would make sure of that.

All he could hope was that it was _liveable_, and not a dead rock like Mars.

Lumos smiled, like seeing into his hidden concerns, and then turned away. "Let us look a little behind before we look at now," the ascended said. "Time has moved past this moment in it, I'm afraid, and left you behind, but we can catch up on it with little bit of insight. Brace yourself, Harry."

Harry braced himself, and the world around them turned into blur of colours, of flowing time that rushed back and forward all at the same time, of emotions and cries and sounds – cacophony of simple physical and temporal existence. Then, everything grew still again, and Voldemort was gone from the ground, the death eaters no longer where they had stood, frozen, just a blink ago. The ground was the same, though, they had not moved, but the stage of it had been, cleared – for a different act, than the one that had been paused to hold Harry.

"Now. Let us watch," Lumos said, and the past begun it's replay.

A little intimidated by the sheer… easiness with which the man had rewound time for them, Harry watched. A little further away, hidden in the shadow of the ancient trees of the Forbidden Forest, Voldemort and his Death Eaters waited in a large, firelit clearing, with masks and hoods and some giants hovering about at the edge of the circle of light. Some of them talking, others looking towards the castle with hungry expressions, humans and giants alike. There was a palpable excitement in the air around them, tension and anxiety combined, and confidence. Harry could almost taste it in the air.

"We should go and just take them," Bellarix Lestrange said, glancing between Hogwarts and Voldemort. "My lord, they are weak, they have no hope of matching our strength or numbers. We would take the castle and break them on the stairs in less than half and hour, and then potter would be delivered to your feet, bound and gagged –"

"No. He will come to me by his own force," Voldemort snapped, not glaring at her exactly, but staring a horrible, knowing stare. Like predator, who knew just where to bite for the quickest kill, except worse. Then the Dark Lord chuckled, turning his red eyes to the castle again. "Harry Potter's an idealistic fool, and more than that he's grown to the perception of others. He's a _hero_, now. He will come."

There was a moment of silence, the death eaters looking at each other, before one of them, a man Harry didn't know, spoke tentatively. "And… then what?"

"And then he dies," Voldemort said simply and smiled thinly, already satisfied with something that had yet to occur. He folded his hands idly over the Elder Wand. "And then, with his cooling body as our banner, we will take Hogwarts."

That thought soothed the anxiety of some of the death eaters, it seemed, because they fell into expectant silence. Eventually, as they waited, couple of other death eaters joined them, coming from the castle's direction. Yaxley and Dolohov, Harry thought, remembering seeing them in the forest while he had still been under invisibility cloak, surrounded by his dead family.

Ah, yes, his dead family. He had almost forgotten about that, in the thrall of the ascension. His family, who had came to him from the afterlife, to walk him to his not-death.

"No sign of him, my lord," Dolohov said, rising Voldemort from his contemplation and making him lift his gaze.

Harry could remember it a little clearer now, and could predict the words spoken and moves made. He also knew, that there, just at the edge of the firelight, was himself – hidden beneath his invisibility cloak, unseen and for a moment, still alive.

Voldemort looked almost disappointed, as he lamented how he had thought Harry would come. "It seems I was mistaken," the dark lord said, and then Harry – the Harry of the past, of the memory, who was still a human and a wizard - proclaimed he hadn't been, and all hell broke loose.

While Harry of the present – whatever moment his present was aside – watched the past unravel, Lumos stood beside him, with idle, curious look about his face, and a hum coming from his throat. Hagrid, who Harry only now realised, remembered, had been there too, tied to a tree – he had been too busy looking at the death eaters to remember – was screaming out to stop him, and the death eaters were equally noisy, until they were shouted to silence.

Voldemort spoke his name, his title, furious and hateful and somehow curious at the same time – and then Harry of the past took the green fire of the killing curse without batting an eye. Harry of the present relaxed a little, some uncertainty inside him easing. He hadn't looked afraid, or tense, or even tired or resigned. He had looked… peaceful, as he had fallen to the ground. It was a small thing, but it made him glad.

"Humans do such strange things," Lumos murmured, and Harry wondered if it was worth it to ask what the man meant, before the glow of white, emanating from his own dead self, distracted him.

It was blindingly brilliant, so much so that the death eaters shielded their eyes, and then giants screeched and turned to flee. Harry's own body melted into the light – or maybe turned into it, or maybe it was just inconsequential at that point and just ceased to be – and then there only the glow of white that seemed to spill endlessly out from itself.

The white shape shifted, and some of the shapeless glow firmed itself, until Harry could see some shadow of himself in it – vague and blurry but recognisable as Harry Potter, even if barely.

"What?" Voldemort asked, and the features of Harry Potter amidst the white glow of pure energy shifted, and frowned. There was a crackle of energy and while Voldemort, a little uncertain, lifted his wand, aiming at the white being of energy. Around him the death eaters paled and backed away, even in their horror not too frozen to follow their survival instincts – each and every one of them cleared a open space behind Voldemort, unwilling to get anywhere near the fire zone.

There was sound of thunderclap, and for a moment everything was illuminated by such a bright flash of light that nothing could be seen – and when it was over, Voldemort was flying backwards in the air, one burned hand still held in haphazard defence, other still holding the Elder wand. He landed gracelessly, rolling and skidding on the moist, dark ground before the momentum faded and he grew still – deathly still in the spot where he had laid in the photography of a moment, in Harry's momentary prison.

There was another sound, not quite a thunderclap and not quite as loud, but infinitively more powerful, and the white glowing being that was Harry as an ascended vanished, leaving behind nothing but a pile of empty clothes, a wand and discarded invisibility cloak.

"Huh," Harry said, not entirely sure what he was meant to feel. He remember it, that moment of utter power, but he hadn't realised it had been so short. It had felt like a small eternity – he had felt thousands of people born and die during it, their energies sparking and fading. How strange.

"Quite," Lumos agreed, sounding a little amused now, and then the silence that had followed the dramatic ending of one Lord Voldemort's reign, was broken. Bellatrix Lestrange howled, dashing forward with a speed any sprinter would've been happy to have, and then, still howling, she was at Voldemort's side. A cacophony of noise and action followed, people screamed and yelled at each other, too loud to be understood. Some of them were running, running away by the looks of it, while others dashed towards the castle, and the rest – the majority – stood stock still, too shocked to move, too surprised.

Bellatrix kneeled by her lord, hands shaking, reaching out, and howled again, not quite like a wounded animal but a lost one, lonely one, betrayed one. It was a inhuman sound, followed by another and another, while someone behind her was yelling, "No, no you fools!" at the fleeing Death Eaters.

"That woman really loved him," Lumos noted, giving Harry a sideways glance. "That does not make your regret your actions."

"Of course not. Just makes me gladder," Harry answered, and smiled. He would never regret causing Bellatrix Lestrange some emotional pain – she deserved it, and more.

Lumos sighed and shook his head, and for a long moment was silent, while Fenrir Greyback left the other death eaters behind in order to attack the castle – and all the students inside it – himself. There was someone, Yaxley, who was yelling at the others to get back to order, that they could still win the day, because it wasn't just their lord who was gone, but Harry Potter as well – they could still win, and then they would rule, free of Voldemort reign. Some listened, some didn't.

In the end, Yaxley and Dolohov led the remaining Death Eaters at the castle, Yaxley crouching down to pick up the Elder Wand from Voldemort's hand, before moving past his lord without as backwards glance. Some looked back, but after the majority headed forward, no one stayed. They either joined the attacking party, or fled – all but Bellatrix who remained, weeping at Voldemort's side.

Harry gave Voldemort no second glance either – he knew the man was dead. Instead he turned to follow the attackers and with a sigh Lumos followed, floating more than walking. "Not a word, not one peep, do you hear?" Yaxley was snarling. "No one is to know. We will take the castle like we were going to, we will crush these pathetic fools and if it comes down to it we will burn this rotten place and everyone in it."

"But what about afterwards," someone asked, a young man judging by the sound of his voice. "With our lord gone, what… what is to become of our cause?"

"Someone else will take our lord's place, and continue on," Yaxley said – and it was obvious to everyone, Harry included, who he intended that someone to be.

"You?" someone asked, snorting with disbelief.

Yaxley, seeming to sense the impending arguments, shook his head. "Someone suitable. It could be me, or it could be you, or anyone among out numbers with the skills and the vision," he said. "We will settle it after this battle – if we start squabble about it now, we will never take the castle and all of this will be for nothing."

"Humanity," Lumos said, with the exasperation of a father about his children. Harry shook his head in agreement, as the death eaters bickered in hushed whispers for a momentum, before Rowle snapped at them that Yaxley was right, and that they would need to take the castle first.

"We are more than a headless snake without our lord – we are more than death eaters. We are the aristocracy, the nobles of the magical world, we are _purebloods_," Rowle snarled. "Lets act like it, and make our power known!"

With nods of agreements and jubilant hisses, they agreed – and then turned to Hogwarts.

Harry and Lumos didn't speak, as they followed, and watched how Yaxley called for Hogwarts' surrender, or doom, proclaiming Harry dead and the battle won. There was screaming, disbelief, bitterness and then, with the death eaters being still in disarray and leaderless despite Yaxley's attempts, the fight broke out, unrefined and messy.

Harry watched – and eventually, Harry wept. The witches and wizards he had gone to school with rushed forward with wands out stretched, his teachers and guides in magic dashed forward, and then there was only the glow of wand fire as one side met the other in brutal, chaotic combat. He could see Neville, brandishing his wand as if it was a sword and doing it very well, cutting down Rowle with roar of triumph. Hermione and Ron fought back to back, grim and pale, their eyes shining through grime and sweat, resolute. They didn't believe that he was gone, Harry thought, and then looked at Ginny who fought back to back with Luna, just as grim, just as resolute.

The fighting spilled from the yard to the entrance hall, into the Great Hall and up the stairways. Blasts took parts of the walls and broke balusters while McGonagall led the statues and tables and any bit of useful equipment she could see in battle like general leading her soldiers. Other professors were there too, fighting anyway they could even if all Trelawney could do was lob crystal balls at people, and Sinistra only managed to dazzle people's eyes with incandescent displays of astronomical illusions. Flitwick, small and barely unseen among the fighting, was throwing people down and sweeping them from their feet in great whiplashes of magic, melting them into the floor and walls and binding them in stone, while near by Shacklebolt was a flurry of battle magic so furious, that the air about him flickered and weaved.

Yaxley fell somewhere, staring at the Elder Wand he had been trying to use, but which had failed to bring out as much as a spark. Elsewhere, Hestia Jones crumbled to the ground, much to the roaring anger of the Mundungus Fletcher who had been fighting at her side. Others were falling too – but some were rising, helped up by their comrades in arms, healed on the fly by those who managed it. Most of those, no, all of them, Harry realised, were from the side of Hogwarts. Not one from Hogwarts, from the Order, stayed down.

Then a familiar voice called out, screeching breathlessly. "He's is dead – Potter killed V-Voldemort!" and there was the smallest moment of confused silence, before another roar broke out – the roar of the Hogwarts students and teachers and the members of the Order of Phoenix who, taking heart, pushed forward. Harry could see the glow in their eyes, in Cho's dark eyes and Luna's pale ones and everyone else's, as they fought, moving forward step by step.

Harry could barely keep up with it, before someone screamed in fury, and he saw Ginny and Luna being wrenched by furious Mrs. Weasley, who turned to face their attacker instead – face Bellatrix Lestrange who leered with mad bloodlust of the utterly insane. A circle of wide open space formed around them, and most eyes turned on those two facing each other. And while Harry wondered, when had Bellatrix joined the fight, the battle was concentrated until Mrs. Weasley and Bellatrix Lestrange were the only ones fighting.

Avatars of the two sides of the battle, he realised as he watched them circle each other. Bellatrix hissed and Mrs. Weasley scowled and the tension built. If Harry had been there, if Voldemort had still been alive, it would've been them that their sides would've thrown their bets at.

"He's dead, you know. Poor little baby Potter," Bellatrix leered, her hand twitching as she clenched her wand, held aimed at her opponent. "My lord killed him - batted him down like a fly! And now he's worm food, just like poor little Fweddie!"

"Bitch," Mrs. Weasley answered, and as Bellatrix opened her mouth for another insult, or maybe a laugh, she lashed out like attacking tiger, ferocious more than fast, and utterly unexpected.

The fight was quick – it wasn't really a fight at all. Bellatrix didn't get the chance to defend or attack and fell to a flash Mrs. Weasley's curse, taking it straight to her chest, and then falling down with a shocked look about her face. That shock was reflected on the faces of the others and, before anyone even realised, the battle had been fought, and won.

Harry turned away, unable to look anymore. He felt weak with relief and with strange, gut wrenching guilt about not being there in person, not being there to help. This time too had already passed – it was a memory of a moment already gone. And with that knowledge, he knew what would follow, no, what _had__followed_.

The death eaters had been captured – most of them anyway. Some had escaped, of course. The giants had been captured too, still in their mad dash away from the light that had already vanished. The dementors had been taken down – they had gone loose at Voldemort's death, and had never joined the battle really, and had instead attacked some of the fleeing death eaters, easier, tastier preys in their state of horror and fear. And so, the war had ended.

Harry buried his face into his hands for a moment, and could sense how the memory of time faded away around him – the illusion of what had been trickling away as Lumos realised that the replay was no longer necessary. "Did they figure out what happened to me?" Harry asked, without looking up.

"Not precisely, no, but they have theories, and will have many more," Lumos said, and he looked a little amused again. Amused and firm. "You might have started a religion, with your brief _return__from__the__death_."

The wizard nodded, and shook his head. Another crime of the ascended, he supposed and sat down. He couldn't say what he was sitting on, exactly, there was nothing _there_, but he was sitting. "I don't suppose I could go and tell my friends goodbye?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," Lumos said.

"How about some of my things, personal possessions. Any chance I could get some of those?" Harry asked, and Lumos only shook his head, making him sigh. He didn't really mind, he had some things he was a little attached to, the invisibility cloak, his broom, the pouch Hagrid had given him, his wand… but in light of things, they didn't really matter that much. "Then, could I at least… know what will happen to my friends?" he asked quietly. He wanted, needed to know that Hermione and Ron – and Ginny – would be alright.

"That's a future that hasn't come to pass yet, but… perhaps eventually," Lumos said, and crouched down before him, smiling again. "You are a criminal, Harry Potter, a Murderer and an Outcast of the Ascended. Are you ready for your punishment?"

Harry sighed. He wanted to ask for more, to plead, but… he had already been granted one wish. He had seen how the fight had ended, and he knew who had and hadn't survived. It would have to be enough – he knew he wouldn't be allowed more. "As ready as I'll ever be," he said. "What is Abydos like?"

"You will see," Lumos promised, and everything faded to bright shining light.

xx

First chapter of my latest crossover idea, which I might or might not continue until the finish - am writing the third chapter now, and I still have no name for this thing. And before anyone asks, the year is 1998 in both HP and SG universes, so this starts somewhere middle of second season of SG. If I manage to write it long enough, I will post the rest of it probably, but with Nanowrimo just behind the corner...

Name suggestions welcome, my apologies for possible grammar errors, etc...


	46. Mother dearest, SH x HP

Warnings; HP x (BBC) Sherlock cross. Makes little sense, the cross is weird and not canon friendly, everyone is ooc and there is some angst. Spoilers from Sherlock Season 1's ending. Not slash, for once. Also, the people are majorly ooc.

**Mother dearest**

The steady beeping of the monitors seemed almost mocking as they went on and on, counting heart beats. John, having listened to such monitors for many many years, thought that by now he would've gotten used to that sound enough to filter it out, but no, apparently not. Maybe, if the man lying on the bed, hooked to that monitor, counted by it, had been anyone other than Sherlock.

John had never seen him so still. Sherlock was always so energetic, even when he lapsed into what could only be described as catatonia of sheer boredom, Sherlock was always very mobile - if not in body, then in voice and if not that, then in mind. Always, _always_ in mind.

But not now. Sherlock was still, not as a statue, but as something worse - as a human being that had all the potential of movement and energy, that simply did not reach that potential. Would not, could not - didn't. It was made all the worse by that steady beeping - it was like a tempo of _something._ Steps of walking, running, sneaking, the melody of speech or quotation - of an insult or explanation. Tempo, as unrealised as the potential of movement.

In a odd way, the bandages weren't as bad. Sherlock has severe burns, of course - twenty seven percent of skin, that was nothing to sneer at. On top of that, Sherlock's arm, neck, knee and several fingers were in casts, and he had bandages around his torso, supporting the broken ribs. And finally the bandages, thick and covering, around his head. All bad, worse, unbearable - but nothing compared to the stillness. You could _recover_ from wounds, from cuts and bruises, breaks and tears - even from burns, even if not without marks.

But cracked skull, cranial bleeding, swelling, four and half hours of extremely risky surgery and one to twenty odds of survival?

John just wished Sherlock would _move_. Even a twitch of fingers would do, just to show that there was the tiniest sliver of hope. Flicker of eyelashes, maybe a twitch of his unbroken leg. He would've given everything, everything he had left to give at any rate, just to see Sherlock's brow furrowing in that familiar frown of disgust.

John stared at Sherlock's unmoving side, not waiting any more, just keeping his eyes open and watching. Not wanting miss it, that frown, if it happened. He wasn't one for those sort of sentiments, not before and certainly not now, but the world was that much less without that frown.

The world would be less without Sherlock. That was a sentiment he could accept and understand - because God, it was true, wasn't it? If there was ever one person who made a difference, who mattered, and whose absence would leave a hole, palpable not just to those closest to him, or those who had ran into him and met him, but also to those many who never would... it was Sherlock

In Sherlock's body lay the potential of movement. in his mind, in his brilliance, lay the potential of _change_ of _making a difference_.

John wasn't sure how long he stared - the moments and heart beats blurred into an agonizing eternity. At some point, the door somewhere behind him opened and he could hear a new tempo - this of footsteps. He didn't really internalise it's meaning, though, not before the owner of those footsteps was already at his side, and placing one warm, strong palm on his shoulder.

Mycroft said nothing, offered no placations or words of courage, just that small moment of uncharacteristic sympathy, conveyed in equally uncharacteristic physical contact. Understanding, kinship - it was one and the same, what lay before them. Mycroft's brother, John's partner - all wrapped up in bandages, timed in heartbeats.

And so very unlikely to survive.

"We've caught six of the seven snipers now," Mycroft spoke finally, taking his hand away and turning to pull himself a chair. His hand shook ever so minutely on the handle of his ever present umbrella as he sat down - he placed the other hand on top of the first, to stop the tremor.

"That's good," John answered - though who cared? Moriarty had gotten away - wounded, dragged away according to Mycroft, something about patterns in the rubble. John had been unconscious by that time. Unconscious and utterly useless - and relatively unscathed, while near by Sherlock had been dying.

"You ought not to blame yourself," Mycroft said, probably reading what John was thinking from the line of his throat or something. He offered no other encouragements, though - but he didn't need to.

And that made it all the worse. Sherlock had taught him too well, in the time they had been living together - some of his logic had rubbed off on John. While the sentimental side of him would've liked to dwell on the oddly soothing self discrimination and loathing, in the guilt of things he could've done... the logic knew better. Sherlock had called Moriarty, Moriarty had snatched John and from that moment on, John had been helpless under the thrall of explosives, pinpricks of red light - and the knowledge that, without knowing it, Sherlock had been walking with a red dot on the back of his head from the moment he had send that text to Moriarty.

Things had played out the way they had only because Moriarty had wanted his grand showdown.

But maybe there might've been something? He could've fought back when they had been strapping the bomb on him, when he had been ushered to the swimming pool - given Sherlock some sign when they had first seen each other there, with John playing the part of a puppet in Semtex strings?

And what that would've accomplished? Moriarty hadn't been there in the beginning, and had kept his distance the time John had been loaded with explosives - never near enough to harm or even spat at. And at the end of it, Sherlock was there, and...

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, not exactly sharply but with enough force to snap John out of his thoughts. As the former soldier blinked himself out from useless, helpless replay of a memory he couldn't change, he found the elder man staring at him steadily. "How are you feeling?" the elder of the Holmes brothers asked rather pointedly, and John swallowed.

He couldn't really answer – there was nothing he could say that wasn't blatantly obvious. He felt used, abused, and helpless. He felt numb and dull - both thanks to the painkillers they had given him while his shoulder had been wrenched back to it's proper position, and because of what he had experienced. He had bruises and would be purple and blue before long, and would most likely limp for couple of weeks thanks to a badly sprained ankle. He had cuts and some mild burns. He had more regrets than hopes.

He was alive and would continue being alive, while Sherlock, with each passing moment, lost a precious percentage from his chances of survival.

"I don't feel anything," he lied eventually and Mycroft just gave him a look, not even all that pointed or meaningful one, just a look that made him feel like he was a misbehaving dog and that he really could've done better had he put his mind to it.

There was a moment of awkward silence, plagued by that bloody beeping. "Has anything else..." John stared to ask, more out of the desire to cover that beeping - it seemed louder now, final - but in the end, he wasn't sure how to continue the sentence. Did he want to know about Moriarty, or the Bruce-Partington plans, or maybe about whoever had helped Moriarty escape - or did he want to know if some miracle cure for damn poor odds had been invented, or some doctor with magical healing abilities had appeared?

"Not as such," Mycroft answered, slowly turning the umbrella in his clasped hands, like trying to bore a hole through the tiles of the floor. "There is still time though."

Time. Was there really?

Dully, John stared at the bed, at Sherlock - at the bandages covering the right side of Sherlock's face, wondering. Would Sherlock have scars? He'd never be quite as handsome again, probably. What was Scotland Yard doing? Rummaging through the scene of the explosion? Had the snipers given anything away yet? Had something, anything, been unearthed? How much of his connections was Mycroft employing in the manhunt for Moriarty - some, half, all? All of British Government, hunting a single man. How hard could it be?

About as hard as healing Sherlock

John, without noticing it, slumped slowly. His shoulders falling, his head bowing - he only noticed it after finding himself staring at the floor, rather than at Sherlock. His eyes were stinging and his throat felt like someone had wrapped rough, dry ropes around his wind pipe - every inhale hurt, every exhale got caught. He felt _stuck_ in the chair where he sat, like moving an inch would be too much effort. Like he never would move from the chair - he'd grow old and die there, unless people forgot to bring food to him.

He felt out of fuel - and how odd was that to think, in conjunction to Sherlock, who was more like a chemical fire, burning black and blue and green, than anything else?

The silence that fell stretched. The beeping kept on and on, and John counted them at some point. twenty five, thirty six, forty nine, sixty eight, ninety four... it was so very even. It almost seemed hopeful - even, no change, stable, no news better than bad news. Except it wasn't.

How many of Sherlock's braincells had died? In the moment of impact, in that crucial moment of bleeding when the blood that should've been feeding his brain with oxygen had spilled instead - during the bleeding itself, during the swelling?

Sherlock's brain could still be swelling, slowly but steadily like a time bomb worse than the one Moriarty had strapped around John's torso. Bleeding was a better assassin than any explosive, John knew. How many people bled to death - on operation table's in back alleys, front lines and somewhere where no one saw? A lot.

John's thoughts ran in useless circles for a moment before getting sidetracked. He thought of the flat, for some reason - it would be so empty. What would happen to Sherlock's things? Mycroft would take most of it, of course - personal things, confidential case files, the like. Molly would collect a lot too - the head from the fridge, for god's sake, and the rest of bits and pieces of people Sherlock had so keenly studied. the furniture was mostly Mrs. Hudson's, that would stay where it was. What about the other stuff?

Maybe John would give Sherlock's clothing to the homeless network - they would distribute them to those who needed them, who deserved them.

God, the flat would be so empty, so cold, so... quiet.

The heart monitor kept on beeping.

John wasn't sure what he was thinking anymore, when the door opened again. In his own chair, Mycroft glanced up, and from the corner of his eyes, John took notice of his odd reaction – the man's back straightened, and he stumbled – actually _stumbled - _to stand.

Confused, and a bit irritated, John glanced up, not sure what he was expecting – a doctor, some high class politician who somehow knew Sherlock and whom Mycroft had to, even in a moment like this, show respect to. The young man who walked in didn't live up to any of his expectations, and confusion pierced through the haze of helplessness in a way nothing yet had, and for a moment John's mind seemed to able to work almost normally.

It was a young man – maybe in his mid twenties – who had a fairly casual green jumper and faded jeans, glasses and hair so messy that Sherlock's natural curls would've looked over done and downright posh beside him.

Without Mycroft's dumbstruck look, the intruder would've seemed completely unimpressive. But even in his stunned state, John knew that Mycroft didn't give wide, surprised eyes to just anyone. And it wasn't just that, no – Mycroft wasn't just surprised, he was shocked _speechless._

"You could've given me a call," the young man said quietly while walking in, and closing the door, his words directed at Mycroft. "I had to be informed by a cross government liaison of all things."

Mycroft jerked slightly, seemed to waver. "My apologies," he said, bowing his head – looking almost chastised. "I was under the impression that you... it seemed forward, seeing that there was still... The doctors haven't given up hope. There is still a chance that modern medicine might work."

"Mycroft," the young man said, frowning slightly now. "Your brother is _dying._ Don't you think I ought to have known?"

John stared with disbelief, looking from the young man to Mycroft, who seemed to flinch at the words. "I thought that we had cut ties," the man, the _most dangerous man John would ever meet_ according to Sherlock, said, and if John had not known better, he would've said he sounded sullen and... rebellious. "Wasn't a complete separation your goal? My understanding was that we were to manage by whatever means available to us, without relying on what we had before."

The young man blinked at that, looking surprised. "Good grief, Mycroft, we're still family!" he then said. Mycroft frowned at that, while the young man shook his head, now more confused than angry, and turned to look at John, seeming to only notice him now. "Ah. You must be Watson. I was informed about you – you live with Sherlock, yes?"

John blinked and then slowly stood up. "Ah, yes. Doctor John Watson – Sherlock and I have a flat share," he said slowly, wondering. Family? He looked between the youth and Mycroft and then glanced at comatose, bandage covered Sherlock. They all had black hair, though there was little family resemblance beyond that. There wasn't much a resemblance between Sherlock and Mycroft either, aside from their height, attitude and hair – and even the hair had it's differences.

"You were there when this happened?" the young man asked, walking towards Sherlock's bedside and reaching out almost to touch the bandage's on the comatose detective's face, but holding back.

"Yes, there... there was a explosion, Sherlock was hit worse than I was – and the impact wave sent him into a corner of a wall," John said, wincing at the memory of the very firm corner in the pool entrance. It was what had cracked Sherlock's skull almost open – it was a small wonder he hadn't died instantly.

Though... it might've been better if he had. Sherlock hadn't regained consciousness, probably he never would and at least that way he knew Sherlock wasn't in pain. But an instant death might have been... easier than this prolonged, pained lingering.

"And it was that detective business of his that got him involved, I bet?" the young man murmured and shook his head. "You've always had so much energy, Sherlock. I suppose I can't blame you for that, though."

Mycroft cleared his throat awkwardly, holding his umbrella with both hands and twisting the handle in his fingers. "Sir," he started, making John almost lose his balance. "Sir, is there anything that you can do?" Sherlock's elder brother asked, and lifted his chin, seeming to regain some of his usual composure. "That is why you are here, I presume?"

"Of course that's why I'm here," the young man answered with a sigh, and glanced at the taller dark haired man. "You are still family. As is Sherlock." Shaking his head, the spectacled man turned to look at Sherlock again. "You're still my boys."

While John tried, and failed, to figure out what that meant, Mycroft let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes momentarily. The young man glanced at him, before turning his eyes back to Sherlock. "How many people are in know about Sherlock's condition?" he asked.

"Some of this hospital's staff, myself, Doctor Watson, and handful of officers from Scotland Yard," Mycroft said, and there was something different about him as he said it – some shadow that John hadn't noticed was gone now, shining with it's absence. "I can compile a list."

"Please do," the young man nodded straightening his back. "I need to make some calls," he said, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully. "You have, say, ten minutes to make that list, and I'd prefer to have at least general locations of people involved attached. Best to do this quickly, before word has the chance to spread."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft agreed, taking out his phone and starting to tap at it with a single thumb. "I believe I can arrange at least the Yarders to meet your people here – if not all of them, then some of them."

"Please do," the other man nodded and after one last look at Sherlock – look which John saw was conflicted and dark eyed and somehow reminded John of some of the men he had served with in Afghanistan. "Kindly make sure that the room is cleared by the time I return – I will have my... doctors here as soon as possible, and I want no hindrances. That means both you and Doctor Watson."

"Yes, sir," Mycroft agreed, while John opened his mouth to object – he wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he did not want to leave Sherlock. Before he could get a word through, however Mycroft reached out and clasped him by the good shoulder, shaking his head sharply.

"Also, Mycroft?" the young man stopped by the door, turning to glance at the taller, elder man over his shoulder. "We will talk later."

"….yes, sir. As you wish," Mycroft nodded, and tugged at John's shoulder,probably to keep him from saying anything. "I will stay in the facility for the time being, sir."

The young man frowned a bit at that, looking like he would've liked to say something. Then he glanced at Sherlock, scowled, and turned away. The door swung shut after him.

The moment they were alone, with only the beeping of the heart monitor sounding in the room, John turned to face the taller man. He wanted to demand answer – who the young man was, why did Mycroft just roll over for him how Mycroft could agree to leave Sherlock, at a moment like this! But the look on the other man's face stopped him.

How someone could look hopeful, regretful and lonely all at once, John wasn't sure – but it definitely wasn't a look at fit Mycroft's features. It fit them almost as bad as a cheery smile of a metro-sexual fit Sherlock.

"Do you trust that man?" John asked instead, pulling his shoulder from Mycroft's grip and rolling it slightly. "Do you trust him with Sherlock's life?"

Mycroft, who had been staring at the door, blinked and looked at him. "Yes, of course," he said, and quickly turned to his phone, pressing a few buttons before bringing the phone to his ear. "Anthea," he said sharply. "I need to know the names and whereabouts everyone who know of Sherlock's condition or saw the extent of his injuries when he and Doctor Watson were pulled from the ruins. Write it, and send it as soon as possible – I will use one of the hospital's printers... Yes, that will be fine. Also, have everyone involved we have any sway over come here, as soon as possible... Nine minutes... good."

With that done, Mycroft pushed his phone into his jacket pocket and turned to look at John. "Well now," he said. "How about a cup of tea, Doctor Watson? Things will get quite busy here, and you and I will only be under foot if we stay."

John scowled, and then narrowed his eyes. "You think Sherlock will recover," he realised. That was what the young man had been promising – but Mycroft actually believed that he could also deliver. Straightening his back, John stared the taller man squarely in the eyes. "How certain are you that he will recover?"

"Hundred percent, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, almost sounding calm now, and motioned towards the door. "Shall we go?"

John didn't like it at all, being away from Sherlock, especially now. What if something happened, what if Sherlock's condition got worse, what if something worse came up – Moriarty was still out there after all, what if he showed up, or one of his underlings, what if someone tried to attack Sherlock? John should've been there, watching, at least he could've called for help if something happened, Sherlock couldn't, Sherlock wasn't even conscious.

And what if something went wrong with whatever the young bespectacled man and his people were doing. What if... what if Sherlock slipped away, and John wouldn't be there?

"Calm down," Mycroft said, lifting a tea cup to his lips and taking a sip. "We will be informed if something comes up."

John knew they wouldn't – Mycroft didn't just _trust_, after all, not without hard knowledge and solid facts. If he was calm, then there was absolutely no reason for John to fret, little and insignificant as he was. But the logical conclusion had very little on the very real fear.

Sherlock was... Sherlock's very existence was _fragile_, now. And John couldn't – not now and maybe not ever again – shake away the realisation of how easily that fragile existence could be extinguished.

"How long until we know?" he eventually managed to force himself to ask.

"Not long," Mycroft said almost soothingly, and glanced at him. No doubt reading something on John's face the man himself wasn't aware of, the taller man sighed and lowered his cup. "There are only so many people I trust explicitly to always have Sherlock's well being in mind," he said. "That man you just saw is on the top of that list, and has been for eleven years now. There is no one on this planet more invested in Sherlock's continued existence."

John frowned, giving the man a disbelieving look. "Including you?"

"Oh, yes," Mycroft sighed, looking away with a faraway look in his eyes. "Even with my connections, there is only so much even I can do, and my attention and abilities must be always divided between my duties. I worry about Sherlock constantly, but when it comes down to it there is always a choice to be made, between family and country and the country is quite a bit more important than Sherlock is in the grand scheme of things. But for that man?"

Mycroft shook his head, looking like he would've liked very much to snort. "For a time I had thought..." he murmured and trailed away with a bitter sort of smile. "Sherlock will be fine," he said then. "There is no doubt about that."

John nodded slowly, not entirely convinced but his worries were soothed somewhat. He still felt like he was in a wrong place – he should've been there, he really should've... but he could wait. He knew that there was nothing he could do anyway so... he could wait.

The wait was excruciating. The first ten minutes, during which Mycroft got his list of people in-know about Sherlock's condition passed by like years. After that it got worse. The tea grew cold and tasted like nothing, and the next cup was no better. The quiet droning of the other patients and the footsteps of the hospital workers as they passed the cafeteria by echoed endlessly. Everything was too white, too sterile – too cheerful, with the sun rising outside the window, as the morning came. Minutes ticked on and on. Like heartbeats, but longer and ever so much worse because they weren't heartbeats – as horrible as the beeping had been, it had marked Sherlock as still living.

And yet, only twenty or so minutes had passed since they had been ordered out of Sherlock's room, when the bespectacled man from before came to the cafeteria, looking as casual and as meaningless as before, except for the look in his green eyes.

"Sherlock's been transferred," he said without preamble, accepting the paper Mycroft wordlessly offered him.

"To St. Mungos?" Mycroft asked quietly.

"Yes. He requires some work that can't be achieved here, without proper... medicine," the young man said, glancing over the list. "Are you sure about this?" he then asked, glancing at Mycroft.

"There is a chance that there might've been some people of the man who caused the explosion who witnessed Sherlock's condition, but there is no way for me to affirm that presently," Mycroft said, standing up. "These are the people that can be confirmed hundred percent. Including some of the hostiles we've caught who were involved."

"Hm. It will do," the young man said, glancing at the list again. "And good sum of these people are on-route to this hospital?"

"Those who aren't have been marked."

The young man nodded and then folded the list, tucking it under his arm. He turned his eyes upwards, to Mycroft, and smiled. "Precise as always, Mycroft," he said. "Good work."

"I... thank you," Mycroft murmured, glancing downwards awkwardly.

The young man nodded. "I have to go – there are some technicalities involved with Sherlock's transfer that I need to be present to supervise. My people will take it from here," he said. "Sherlock should be in a better condition soon enough, but I will send you a word once I know for sure."

"Excuse me," John said, not wanting to miss his opportunity to object. "Where exactly was Sherlock transferred?" he wasn't sure if he had heard the name right – it certainly hadn't rung any bells – and he wanted to make sure so that he could get a cab and make his way there.

The green eyed man paused at that, lifting his eyebrows slightly. "It is a confidential hospital, I am afraid I can't tell the address to you," he said. "There is nothing for you to worry about, however, Doctor Watson. The... doctors who inspected Sherlock are confident that he can make a complete recovery."

"Complete?" John asked with some disbelief. Then, glancing at Mycroft who didn't look surprised at all, he let that pass. "I want to go there," he said. "I need to... I want to stay with Sherlock. I need to know for myself."

There was a moment of silence, as the young man just stared at him thoughtfully, like trying to see into his head – and hell, maybe he was. If he was relative of Mycroft's and Sherlock's and managed to make Mycroft act deferential to him... John didn't even want to know his IQ. Or what he did for living, when Sherlock's _only consulting detective in the world_ and Mycroft's _British Government and British Secret Service and CIA on freelance basis_ were the comparisons.

"Are you and Sherlock romantically involved?" the young man asked suddenly, with keener interest than he had shown before – he even took a step forward, to look at John more intently from top to bottom. "I was under the impression that you merely shared a flat, but of course, you're injured as well... you were there, when the explosion occurred, of course..."

"Ah, erm... no, that's not it," John said, not having expected that – though he probably should've.

"Not precisely anyway," Mycroft added, glancing at John sideways. "Doctor Watson is, however, the only individual Sherlock has so far been able to endure on daily basis since we... left home," he said. "And after meeting they did not only decide to move in together the very next day, but Sherlock invited Doctor Watson along for his... escapades."

"Indeed? Sherlock did?" the young man asked, now even more interested, staring at John like he was the most special individual in the building. "He's always been so individualistic and self-sufficient."

"Indeed. Doctor Watson seems to have a good impact on Sherlock on other accounts as well," Mycroft said, running a hand down the front of his jacket and turning to the young man. "The good doctor is also extremely trustworthy."

John frowned a bit at that, glancing between the two men. It almost sounded like Mycroft was putting up a sales pitch for him – to enable him to go to this secret hospital where Sherlock was? Why?

"Hm. Alright. But I have to use some security measures for now – for his and Sherlock's sake," the young man said, and turned to Mycroft. "Do you wish to come?"

"I... no. I believe it's best I keep my distance with that world," Mycroft said with a mild frown and then started, turning to face the young man. "Which of course was never intended to include _you_, specifically," he hurried to explain, and then fell awkwardly silent.

"Yes," the young man murmured slowly, looking at him sadly, considering. "I am starting to see that. I probably should've specified to you, to both of you, that you weren't actually, that I didn't..." for the first time, he too seemed to flounder, like unknowing how to word what he wanted to say. After a moment, he took a deep breath. "For Merlin's sake, Mycroft, I didn't _disinherit_ you and Sherlock. I _never would._"

While John wondered about the Holmes family, trying to figure out how someone obviously younger could have power to disinherit someone older – and what sort of family it had to be, for that sort of specifications to be necessary – Mycroft let out a sound that was a sigh and gasp and something else mixed, bringing John's thought process to an abrupt halt.

"No?" Mycroft asked in small, quiet voice that was so completely not like him, that it sounded almost alien.

"Of course not," the young man sighed, shaking his head and then running a hand through his hair. "There's obviously been a misunderstanding somewhere -which we of course blew out of proportions," he added and then let out a sigh. "Of all the things you got from me, why did it have to be the flair for dramatics?"

Mycroft let out a small chuckle, then bowed his head, looking awkward and indecisive. Then he seemed to gather himself and lifted his head. "You should... Sherlock needs you attention more now," he said. "You should look into that."

"He's in the care of the best right now, there's little more I can do at the moment except hover and make everyone nervous," the young man snorted and then reached up with one hand, to touch Mycroft's cheek. The move seemed to almost shatter the strong front the man had been trying to put up, and for a moment John could see the boy Mycroft might've been, many years ago.

"You've changed," the young man murmured sadly, rubbing a thumb along the taller man's cheekbone. "You've changed so much, and I've completely missed it."

Mycroft swallowed thickly, then bowed his head, his lips pressed to a thin line. When the young man stepped forward and pulled the taller man to him, Mycroft almost seemed to curl, somehow growing small enough to rest his cheek against the much shorter man's shoulder. "I've missed you so much, Mycroft," the younger man murmured, his arms tightly wrapped around the taller man, squeezing ferociously.

"I've missed you too, Mummy," Mycroft said quietly, his words muffled a bit against the other man's shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he added, and lifted a hand to hold the arm holding him. "I didn't mean to, I never meant to... I'm sorry..."

Staring at them, John found himself wondering whether the drugs he had been given were stronger than he had thought.

What followed didn't reassure him in the least on that point. Things grew blurred for a moment, time and space and everything. John was guided out of the hospital, somehow, by the green eyed man, and at some point he found himself in another hospital, except for the world of him he couldn't make out much of the place. He stood behind a window – no, in front of it, Sherlock was behind it – and there were people, but he couldn't quite look at them.

"I'm sorry about this, but there are certain things people like you can't see without proper... introductions," the green eyed young man said, standing beside him, staring through the glass. "So things will be a bit hazy for now. Just trust in what your feelings say, rather than what your eyes don't see."

John blinked. He could see the man, with the messy black hair and black rimmed glasses, green jumper and faded jeans. He could see that there was a corridor behind the man – but he couldn't see the details. It was cream coloured, and seemed to go into forever, into mist of _not important at all, don't look_. There were people there, ghostly figures that faded in and out of sight. He could see their facial expressions, but not their features, or clothes. It was... strange.

"How are you doing this?" John asked through the odd nag of _don't ask, it doesn't matter._ Because it did and Sherlock would never let something like this hold him back, and something about Sherlock must have rubbed off on him because lack of details, so important on crime scenes, irked him.

The green eyed man glanced at him and smiled. "Your mental fortitude is admirable, Doctor Watson, but you will only get a headache if you fight it. Let the specifics go, let the surroundings fade. Concentrate onto the situation."

The situation. Unable to help himself, John turned to the glass, to look at Sherlock. He can't tell what is being done to his flatmate, only that he is lying on a trolley of some sort, and that there are people around him – _they're there to help, don't worry_. Sherlock looks better, somehow, and with slight jerk John realises that there are no bandages. Sherlock's head, cheek, neck, everything he can see is bare – wounded, vivid red here and there, and bare.

"Is he -" John starts to ask. "The bandages – they should – and the braces, the casts! Why are they –"

"It's fine, those people know what they're doing. Sherlock's fine," the spectacled young man assured him. "Listen," he then said. "Can you hear it?"

John listened, again unable to help himself – maybe he had been hypnotised, for some reason everything the young man said sounded like an order and he couldn't help but follow. Then he heard it – heartbeats. They sounded nothing like before, there was none of the jarring beeping that was so familiar to him and yet so foreign, when attached to Sherlock's person.

No, these were real heart beats, the sort you could hear with a stethoscope, except more true. There was no delay, no odd echo of blood flow, no distortion – and the beats were amplified, echoing through the air almost as if they came from speakers.

As he realised that he was listening to Sherlock's heart – his true heart, not a mimicry of it produced by a machine – John fell silent. They sounded so strong, so steady – sure.

"He's going to be fine," the green eyed man said again, reaching out and patting John's better shoulder. "In the end, you will have harder time recovering, but I can't do much about that. Sherlock gets a pass because he's my family. You aren't, so you need to heal the old fashioned way."

"There's a new way?" John asked, turning to glance at him.

"Well. Not as much new, as hidden," the young man smiled, still staring at Sherlock. "It's been couple of years since I've seen Sherlock in person. How has he been doing?"

John considered that for a moment. "I haven't been living with him that long. He's um... healthy. Keeping himself busy," he finally said. Sherlock was brilliant and mad and beyond maddening, he stored body parts in the kitchen and perform experiments in the living room, he had a skull on the mantle and fired shots indoors. He chased criminals and mysteries for a living – and the word _living_ in this case did not mean profit, no.

"That's good, isn't it?" the young man murmured, sounding a little sad. "He looks a bit underweight though. He's always had troubles eating – couldn't be bothered to, when there were so many more interesting things to be done. That, and the amount of energy he spends... I swear he never learned to walk at all – he jumped right to running."

"You..." John started to ask, but thought better of it – the sentence he had wanted to ask made no sense. He recalled a bit hazily what Mycroft had said, replayed some of the things they had talked between them, Mycroft and the man beside John, and tried to connect the dots. It makes no sense, in the end. "Is Mummy some sort of... title?" he asked, wondering. He couldn't put it pass a family as strange as Holmes to have a matriarchal title pass on, somehow, from mother to sons and beyond.

Maybe this young man was, in fact, Sherlock's and Mycroft's younger brother who was selected to be the head of the house and now whole family, for some obscure Holmesian reason, called him Mummy? John had heard of stranger things.

The young man chuckled. "Merlin knows, I tried to make them call me Daddy," he said. "But Mummy was the only word they knew back then. And when it was between me being Mummy, or everyone being mummy, well. It's not that bad, as far as nicknames go. I've had worse."

John stared at him for a long while, his thoughts circling around nothing that made much sense. "How old are you, Mr... Holmes?" he then asked.

"Potter, actually. Harry Potter," the young man said, holding out his hands. They shook on it, John feeling like he was being led by the nose into murky depths and not knowing how to stop it. "And my age isn't all that relevant, really."

The sensation of _never mind that, there are more important things_ came again, and with a blink John decided that, really, he didn't care that much. Sherlock was going through some sort of procedures – beyond the window, one of the blurry people were feeding Sherlock something – and that was much more important. "Will there be repercussions for this?" John asked motioning beyond the window.

"Repercussions?"

"Me being here. Sherlock being here," John explained. "Since this is some sort of... confidential place."

"Ah, that. No, there won't be," Potter assured. "The moment you leave, you will forget everything of significance of this place – and Sherlock has known for years and never said a thing, so that's fine. Never mind that."

John didn't, and instead let his thoughts wander to other things. His mind couldn't grip the notions of how long it would be until Sherlock recovered – and how it was possible that Sherlock could recover, with his injuries – and so it slipped away from that. But beyond that there was little to think that made any difference – Moriarty and his people were so far away from his concerns just then, that he just didn't care.

"When I found out that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, Mycroft said something about how they shouldn't be fighting, about how it upsets Mummy," John said slowly, trying to remember the precise words. "I think Sherlock said that he wasn't the one who upset her. Him." he corrected and glanced at the man beside him awkwardly. "Is that why Mycroft acted like...?"

Potter sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, his arms folded and a tired look about his face. "It was a stupid thing. Mycroft just entered the government's service, and Sherlock was... well, it wasn't a good time. We had a fight about independence – I didn't much like what either of them were doing, and they didn't like me holding them back."

John raised his eyebrows and Potter shrugged. "It would've been easier if we all were normal – we could've just screamed at each other over the dinner table, sulked for day or two, and then made up. But of course we aren't," he said and snorted. "Sherlock ran off in the middle of it, Mycroft stalked off after that, and... well. I did something stupid."

"...oh?"

Potter didn't say anything at first, just looked through the window where Sherlock was being fed something yet again. Then the shorter, younger man shrugged. "I arranged a transfer of funds to their accounts," he said then. "Ten thousand pound a piece I think, maybe more. With a note that they could do as they wanted. I haven't heard a word from them since."

John frowned at that, looking at the man confusedly. "You... gave them ten thousand pounds a piece and since then you haven't talked?" he asked with some disbelief. "I don't get it."

"It has to do with a long standing argument about finances and whatnot – I wasn't too good at investing, Mycroft wanted to play with stock market and Sherlock had some inventions, stuff like that," Potter said, waving a dismissive hand. "I suppose they took my transferring the money as a sign that I had given them what they asked and washed my hands of them. When they never sent a word or came around, I thought they had washed their hands of me, and gone to do and be whatever they wanted. I didn't realise they thought I had disinherited them with that act before seeing Mycroft today."

"… I see," John muttered. Well, people fought for lesser things – he and his sister hadn't spoken for a full year because girl Harry had liked had confessed that she liked John. Frowning a bit, John rewound his thoughts a bit. The man's name Harry Potter, wasn't it?

Probably better he kept thinking the man as _Potter_ like he had so far – it could get confusing on the long run.

"That thing you somehow did to my head," he said slowly. "It's making it hard to think."

"That's because you're fighting against it," Potter explained. "Just by being aware of it, you're making things harder for yourself. If you'd just let go, things would be more or less normal – except for the things your mind refuses to acknowledge."

John sighed, shaking his head. "Too much time with Sherlock," he said. "I keep thinking that I need to see the details."

"Ah. Well, it shouldn't take long now." Potter said. "Just try and relax."

xx

So I remembered this summary about a crossover which implied Harry being raised by Sherlock, or John, or both - and I wondered why is it always that way, why does Harry always get raised by someone from another universe? So I turned it around.

Here's the story. In 1999, the Second Wizarding War just ended. Harry's working for Minister Shacklebolt, cleaning some messes left by the Death Eaters. During this job, he goes to Azkaban and finds, much to his horror, that it's no longer a prison, but a laboratory where the Death Eaters performed god knows what experiments on the muggleborns who had been imprisoned there.

There were many goals for these experiments, but the one we're interested about is to do with "preventing" the whole "Muggleborns stealing magic" thing that Death Eaters conned up. However, just removing the whole Muggleborn problem wasn't all that interesting just by itself - why not go a bit further and make use of the Muggleborns? So, the ultimate goal of this particular experiment was to take muggleborns and turn them into useful (and magicless) slaves.

Harry, who has the lovely task of cleaning the whole mess up, finds the products of this particular experiments - boy who seems some ten or so years, another who is about year or so old. They've been kept in a box, basically, and know nothing except to be wary and nervous all the time, and the word "Mummy" which the elder boy learned from their mother, before she died.

These boys, whom through magical means Harry finds out were named Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes by their mother before her death, are products of more than one not so nice experiments. Long story short, they are magicless muggleborns, enhanced to grow faster (because waiting 10 to 20 years for a slave to grow up is not efficient) and they also have been enhanced to be more intelligent, because otherwise they wouldn't be much use, having such limited time to grow and learn. So, basically, they're super intelligent and they grow one year per month.

Now, Wizarding world is too busy trying to get it's act together, and there is very little space in ST. Mungos for two boys who are basically muggles, and who will be extremely hard to take care off, considering their growth rate. Harry is told to just leave them to muggle world and be done with it, but he decides against it. So, he quits his job, and becomes a Daddy.

Or, actually, a Mummy, because it's the only word the boys know and they refuse to call him anything else.

Time goes by - Mycroft grows up to be adult in a year, Sherlock reaches his adolescence in the same time, an Harry is busy as hell, trying to keep up with them. Worse yet, he can't stop them from growing unnaturally fast and it looks like Mycroft would be dying of old age in about seven or so years - which is not acceptable. So Harry builds connections, does and calls in favours, becoming one hell of a influential wizard just to keep his two boys from dying of old age before they get the chance to turn ten. He eventually manages it, somehow, but by that time Mycroft looks like a man in his thirties, and Sherlock is an adult - both physically and mentally, even if not in experience.

After that Harry does his all to make things right by Sherlock and Mycroft - he enables them their lives in the muggle world, magically faking them some proof of muggle education and stuff like that. The boys, erm, men are entirely too clever for their own good, though, and they want more - and they're bitter about the whole Magical World thing, which they should but can't be part of. So, Mycroft gets a job somewhere, making a name for himself, Sherlock enters a muggle university at some point, and few years later things come to a head when Mycroft finds himself on the track of becoming the most influential man in Britain - and Sherlock is probably discovering recreational drugs and whatnot.

Then they fight, and split and don't talk in two years and this happens

And then I watched the first episode of the second season of Sherlock and that's that. I might, probably will, recycle this idea later on but it will have to wait until I see the last episode, I think. And then I will probably have other ideas. But it was fun while it lasted.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	47. Locketed up, SH x HP

Warnings; Sherlock x Harry Potter crossover, AU, bit weird, not entirely serious.

**Locketed up**

"So this is what it was all about?" John asked, holding the locket up to the light to admire the design. It was a very old fashioned thing, something no one would wear these days – it was heavy and bulky, the chain was big, and the design do was elaborately pretty that it only suited a jewellery box. Why an S, he wondered. It was very nicely embossed, with glittering gemstones here and there – almost looked like a snake, really.

"That's what it was all about," Sherlock agreed without looking up from his computer. "Don't be so impressed, John, the thing is next to worthless in reality. I imagine it's a very well done fake of the real thing, but it's fake nonetheless, barely worth ten quid."

"Huh, it's still pretty nice to look at," John answered, dangling the pendant in his fingers, and watching it glitter. "You think Bedows though this was the real thing, and that was what all the fuss was about?

"Something like it, imagine," Sherlock agreed, tapping some keys. "The case is over and done with now, though. Barely worth thinking about anymore."

John glanced at his flatmate and then lowered his hands. "What about the pendant?" he asked. "What are you going to do about it?" it had been the reason for three – rather inept – burglaries and one fairly impressive fist fight, after all. "Isn't it evidence?"

"Hardly. There won't be a police report of this," the detective answered. "And I don't care what you do with the locket. Throw it out of the window for all I care. It's worthless."

The doctor frowned and then shrugged. Something that had motivated three burglaries and a fist fight wasn't, in his opinion, worthless. Even if the metals might not be worth anything, and the gemstones were glass, it was still worth three burglaries and a fistfight. "I think I'll keep it," he said, tucking the pendant into his pocket.

"Won't go very well with your cardigan," Sherlock pointed out without looking up.

"I'm not going to _wear_ it. I'm just going to keep it. Maybe I'll make a key chain out of it," John shrugged.

"Suit yourself," Sherlock said, and continued working with whatever he was working. Shaking his head, John turned to the kitchen, intending to check out whether or not they had anything in the fridge, and like that the matter was settled.

x

For a couple of days the pendant remained in John's pocket, forgotten after a while. He found it again when intending to wash his cardigan, and tucked it into his trouser pocket without further thought. That night, though, when emptying his pockets before going to bed, he found the thing again and placed it to his bedside table, thinking nothing more of it.

He woke up three times that night, certain that there was someone in the room, but every time he clicked the light on and looked around, right hand inching towards the gun beneath his pillow, the room was empty, and there were no wind outside, nothing to count for being waken up. The third time he went as far as to check on Sherlock – Sherlock's room was empty, and John found his flatmate on the couch instead, having fallen asleep there and not for the first time. Sherlock looked like he had slept for a while, though, so John returned to his room, and went back to sleep.

He didn't wake again until his alarm clock rang, and in the following day John forgot the bad night completely – it wasn't the first night he had slept poorly, and it would certainly not be the last, not while he kept on living with Sherlock. Going about his days with only three hours of sleep was becoming the norm, now days.

He remembered it instantly the next night, when he woke for the first time with no apparent reason. This time he didn't turn the lights on and instead looked around the room, trying to see what might've alerted him. He wasn't as light sleeper as he used to be – back in Afghanistan there was times when the mere breathing of someone was enough to startle him into wild action, but those days were gone. It had to be something more concrete.

There was nothing – the only thing he could see in the darkness was the light of the streetlamps, screening through the curtains, and how it glimmered in the fake gemstones of the pendant. Nothing else. Light revealed nothing more than his own room with his own few things, scattered about. Nothing to account for the feeling that someone had been staring at him while he slept.

"If Mycroft's installed a camera to my bedroom, I'm going to kill Sherlock," John mumbled grumpily and turned off the light, falling back to the bed and soon back to sleep.

He woke up again only what felt like five minutes later – and then again little while after that. Irritated, sleepy, and painfully aware of the fact that his hand tended to start shaking again when he was tired, John glared at the room. "D'ya mind?" he asked from the dark corner of his room, glaring at it. "I'm tryin' to sleep here!"

He didn't wake again that night, and when the alarm rang, he forgot everything about it in the blearily rush to find his clothing, make himself suitable and maybe even grab a bite to eat before heading to the clinic. Sherlock, already awake and growing irritated with the lack of a case, said nothing to him the entire morning, not an unusual occurrence, and John left for work without thinking either him or the locket.

The third night, John was once more woken up by the feel of something staring. Having grown more than little irritated with this, he sat up in his bed, growling audibly. "Do you _have to_?" he asked, not sure whom or what he was speaking to, but his sleepy mind connecting the feeling of being stared with the probability that he could also be heard, and that there was someone behind it. "Can't you do this during the day, when I'm already awake?"

"You're not here during the day," a soft voice answered, and with a bang John was wide awake, and reaching for his Browning.

But there was no one in the room, and John checked every place from the unlikely hiding spot behind the curtains and under the bed, to the wardrobe and everything else. There was no one there, and no place where anyone could be. Nor did John find any speakers, or a camera, or anything of the sort – and having learned how to check from Sherlock, who checked their flat _daily_ for Mycroft's handiwork, John was pretty sure he had searched every probable place.

"Who are you?" he asked, sitting gingerly back to his bed, his right hand clasped around the Browning tightly.

No one answered. John waited – asking again after a while, changing his question to "Where are you," and "Why are you here?" but getting no answer.

After half an hour he shook his head, cursed himself for letting a dream startle himself like that, and went back to sleep. He wasn't disturbed again that night.

x

"Have you developed a tendency to sleep talk and walk?" Sherlock asked him the following morning, not looking up from his microscope and from whatever he was experimenting with. "I could hear you, last night."

John glanced up from his toast and shook his head. "Keep waking up in the middle of the night," he answered, running a hand through his hair and sighing. "Must be nerves."

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, just took the Petri dish off the microscope and replaced it with another. "Sleeping pills?" he suggested.

John grimaced. "No thanks," he said and stuffed the last of his toast to his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. "I'll try and not bother you tonight, alright? Now I got to go, though," he said, standing up. "Do you need anything from the store?"

"Bleach and peanut butter. And balloons – condoms, if you can't find them."

For a moment John paused at that and then shook his head, "I'm not even going to ask," he decided, quickly adding the requested items to the shopping list that was pinned to the fridge with a magnet, before tugging the list off and into his pocket. "I should be back around three. Try not to blow anything up in the mean while."

"I will try my very best," Sherlock said and then looked up from the microscope. "White noise," he said thoughtfully.

"What?"

"For your sleeping problems. I could download a track. You have head phones, don't you?"

John considered that and then shrugged. "Might try it," he said. "Got to go now, though."

x

Sherlock had his white noise track ready that evening, as well as set of speakers, through which John could play the track with. It felt a bit overblown, really – it had only been three nights so far, and the last night he had only woken up once – but there was something very… charming about the fact that Sherlock had gone through the trouble. Even if it was only so that John's nightly wake up calls wouldn't bother him, with whatever experiments he decided to do at night.

John set the white noise track to play on loop and then went to bed. It was a bit harder to fall asleep with the foreign noise, even if it wasn't actually anything clear and literally just background noise. But eventually he must've managed – because just like in the previous nights, he was woken up abruptly o the feeling of being stared at.

"This is getting really irritating," he said to no one in particular.

"Sorry," an almost sheepish voice answered, and John turned his head to the direction of the voice, blinking – not really expecting anything. It was just his sleep addled mind, after all.

Or not. There was someone standing by the window, leaning to the window frame. In the dark John couldn't see any precise details about him, except for the dark shape and the paleness of his face, lit dimly by the light coming from the street outside. And mass of dark hair, not entirely unfamiliar.

"Sherlock?" John asked blearily, reaching for the lamp and flicking it on.

It wasn't Sherlock. The man standing by the window was much shorter, for one, and he wore glasses for another. His hair was just as black as Sherlock's, but infinitely messier – though spiky, where Sherlock's was curly. The angular face, the clothing and the eyes sealed the deal – John had never seen anyone with eyes so overwhelmingly green.

How long he stared at the young man standing so casually in his room, John wasn't sure – but eventually he managed to act on the knowledge that there was _someone in his room_. The browning came to his hand with something like the usual practiced ease, and the next moment John had the barrel trained on the intruder, not quite intending to fire – or able to, the safety was still on – but more than willing to threaten.

The green eyed man didn't as much blink at the gun; he didn't even seem to notice it as he stared at John's face. "You're very warm, you know that?" he asked.

"Who the hell are you?" John asked in answer. "How did you get into my room?"

"You brought me here," the young man said and shrugged, looking away and into the street. "I wasn't really intending to stay, but there's something very interesting about this place. It's… cosy, in the base level," he sighed somehow wistfully. "It's been a while sine I've been in a place like this. It brings back memories."

"What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean I brought you here?" John demanded to know.

The young man glanced back at him, then at the bedside table. "Look," he said, and despite himself, John looked.

The pendant – no, _locked_ – was open, like abandoned seashell. Inside there was… something. Or nothing – it was hard to see, mostly it looked like there was a _hole_, there, that continued right inside John's table, the floor, and the entire earth below.

As John stared, confused and too tired to make sense of it, the green eyed man left the window, and walked forward. He came to stand by the pendant, staring at it like John was, but his expression was more reluctance than confusion. "Do you know that people's wishes come out in their dreams?" he asked. "You dream very nervously. Keep thinking that you're alone, without back up, every time. You keep wishing that there was someone there, covering your back."

"What in god's name are you –"

"It's a bit of a loop hole, really," the young man said. "Shouldn't be taking advantage – it tires me out a bit – but it's been a while. And the last people had no idea what to do with me. It was rather… unpleasant." He paused and then shook his head, turning to John. "If you want me to stop, just put the locket elsewhere."

"What –" John stared and then stopped, as there was a flash of something – not light, more shadow really – that seemed to emanate from the young man. It was sucked into the locket so fast that John almost missed it, but the way the locked slammed shut with a click brought it home. As John stared at the locket in bewilderment, his gun hand falling, the elaborate S on the locket's front gleamed, and for a moment it looked like the fake gemstones were green.

For a moment John just stared at the locket, disbelieving. Then he finally lowered the gun and reached for the thing, first cautiously, worrying that it might be hot or something. But it felt no different from the way it had before, and as he held it in his hand, it looked exactly the same as before. Except now he knew that the thing opened, and had a _hole_ inside it. And a person.

Holding the locket up, the doctor eyed it with sleepy confusion. "A genie?" he asked then, not entirely sure if he hadn't dreamed the whole thing up.

The locket didn't answer.

x

"Turns out this opens," John said the next morning, when he entered the kitchen and found Sherlock cutting pieces out of the day's news paper with nail clippers. Ignoring the mess, he dropped the locket to the table, and went about getting some tea.

"Opens?" Sherlock asked, abandoning the molested paper for the locket, curiously turning it in his hand. "I tried that before, but it wouldn't. How did you get it to open?"

"It did it by itself," John answered with a yawn. "It's what's been waking me up. I think. I really don't want to think about it right now," he added, leaning to the counter, while Sherlock looked between him and the locket, looking like he very much would've liked to ask, but holding back on John's sake.

Then finally the detective turned his full attention to the locket. "I think I need a nail file for this," he murmured, peering at the seam where the locket opened.

"I wish you the very best luck," John said, really not wanting to think about it further. If he was lucky, it turned out he had just dreamt the whole thing and there was nothing particularly interesting about the locket. If not… well. He'd be more than happy let Sherlock handle that – he got enough weirdness in his life trying to sort of Sherlock's shopping lists; he wasn't all that interested in the possibility that fairytales might not be fairytales.

Although, the idea that Sherlock would find that out wasn't that comforting either. Sherlock with a genie…

John made and drank his tea as quickly as he could. "I think I stop by Angelo's for breakfast," he decided, not really wanting to stick around for longer. "You mind?"

"Mm, no," Sherlock answered, with look of concentrated strain on his face as he tried to pry the locket open with his fingernails. John hesitated and then shook his head. "Just don't wish for more murders," he said, and quickly made his exit, trying not to feel like he might've just made a horrible mistake. But then, of course, he couldn't have.

After all, genies didn't exist.

God, he hoped they didn't exist.

x

When he returned from work, after one hellish shift thanks to the recent wave of flu that was running around London, Sherlock wasn't alone. No, there was a young man with wild, spiky black hair, green eyes and eyeglasses, sitting in one of the armchairs, looking a bit confused.

"Hello John," Sherlock said without looking away from the young man. "This is Harry. He's a wizard. From the locket."

"… oh," John answered, looking from the young man to his flatmate. "Mind if I put the shopping away and make some tea before we have this conversation?"

"No, no, watch this," Sherlock said, lifting the pendant a bit – holding it like it was a _remote control_. "Harry. Put the shopping away and make us some tea."

The young man stood still for a moment, before glaring at Sherlock and standing up. While John stared, surprised and confused, the young man walked up to him, took the plastic bag from him, and carried it to the kitchen. Sherlock, looking after the young man, sighed. "He didn't use magic this time," he said, almost pouting.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking from kitchen to his flatmate and back again, not entirely sure what was going on. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"The locket, John. The locket is much more interesting than I thought," Sherlock said, holding it up and openly admiring it. "It turns out that there are such things as wizards and magic. Harry is a wizard – he was imprisoned into this locket approximately eleven years ago by a rival wizard, and is now magically bound to follow every order the owner of this locket gives. Who knows how it ended up in the circulation the way it did, or how Bedows found out about it, it's more than likely that he didn't know what it was at all, but –"

"Sherlock" John snapped. "Are you _kidding_ with me?"

The detective stopped and gave him an affronted look. "I don't _kid_," he said.

"You can't be honestly saying that that guy is a _wizard_ who was in a locket," John snapped.

"But he is," Sherlock answered. "You were the one who pointed out that the locket opened. Didn't you see him?"

John hesitated, frowning. It was a bit hazy now, but… it couldn't be possible, could it? Though if Sherlock believed it, then it was proven, factual and confirmed truth. Sherlock didn't believe in anything he couldn't confirm, after all - hell, Sherlock didn't even believe in _stars_ and he could _see_ them.

As the doctor tried to get his thoughts straight, the young man with green eyes and glasses returned, carrying a tray with pot, couple of cups and plates, containers for milk and sugar, and a strainer. As John and eager Sherlock watched, the young man poured the tea, preparing the cups with irritated efficiency, before stepping back and sitting down again, folding his arms and glaring at Sherlock, who grinning delightedly back.

"See?" Sherlock asked, reaching for one of the cups and blowing gently at it. "He follows every order – though only those he's capable of performing. I tested it – he can't make things out of nothing or affect a person's social status, for example he couldn't make me the king of England – but he can put things that are broken back together, and change the physical appearance of things. For example," the detective pointed at a pillow on the couch – a new velvet pillow with golden tassels. "He turned the blue pillow into that at my order."

"You can't honestly be saying that…" John stared to say and then frowned. "Sherlock," he stared again, this time slower and more deliberate. "You don't mean to say that you've been ordering him around all day and he's been forced to follow your every whim because of that locket?"

"Yes! Isn't it delightful?" Sherlock asked – and John promptly snatched the pendant from his fingers, much to his outrage.

"Sherlock, even if you're capable, you're not supposed to order people around like that," the doctor said with strained patience, while the green eyed young man relaxed a bit where he sat, now that the pendant was no longer in Sherlock's possession. "I don't care how it's possible; if he has no choice in the matter, it's pretty much slavery. You do know that slavery is bad, right?"

"But it's not, it's –" Sherlock started and then paused frowning. "Huh," he then said in realisation.

John gave him a mild glare and then turned to the young, green eyed man. "Hi. I think we started on a wrong foot here. My name is John, this idiot is Sherlock. And you are…?"

The young man hesitated, glancing at Sherlock, then at the pendant John was holding, and swallowing. "Harry Potter," he said, shifting a bit where he sat.

"Okay. Hi Harry, nice to meet you," John nodded. "Are you _really_ a wizard?"

"I really am a wizard," Harry answered and then frowned at him. "Are you going to ask me to prove it too?" he asked, looking very uncomfortable with that thought.

The doctor paused at that and then turned at his flatmate. "Sherlock?" he asked mildly. "What else did you do?"

Sherlock wet his lips, not meeting his eyes. "Well… I did broke some things just to see how well he could fix them and tried to see if he could raise the dead, and then I wondered if magic affected bacterial growth – it doesn't, actually – and then there was –"

"Sherlock."

"It was fascinating," the detective said defensively. "He can make things levitate. Do you know how interesting it feels, to fly?"

John stared at him with disbelief and then sighed, sitting down, turning to face Harry. "Did he ask you do anything you're not comfortable with?" he asked with very little hope.

"Well… not really," the so called wizard answered. "He just asked a lot. And most things I can't do."

"Alright," John said, taking a deep breath and realising. So, okay, they had a wizard. Who was magically bound into a pendant, and Sherlock had experimented with this… slavery bond thing, and magic, which he of course would do because he was Sherlock. But at least the man wasn't a genie – that would've really been a disaster. "So," John started. "Could you explain this all to me?" he held up the pendant. "How is this possible?"

"Magic," the young man said uncomfortably, leaning back in his chair and glancing between John and Sherlock. "I'm bound to the pendant. It is basically slavery – though I have some free will outside of it. Just, when you make an order while holding the pendant, I'm bound to follow it. But I obviously can't do anything I wasn't capable of doing before, so I can't raise the dead, create gold, anything like that."

"Just change things, and make them float?" John asked, while Sherlock harrumphed.

"I can do a bit more than that, but there are limits," Harry hesitated and then shrugged. "It's hard explain what I can or cannot. It can't be really wrapped up that neatly."

"Alright. So, wizards exist," John muttered. "And you're one of them. Alright."

"Yes, yes, John, do keep up," Sherlock said, and then moved forward, making a grab at the pendant. He might've been quick, but John ex-military and a bit too alarmed to be caught unawares – he easily managed to avoid the attempt. "Oh, come on!" the detective almost whined.

"No. You've already proven yourself unsuitable for that level of responsibility," John answered with a snort, and quickly tucked the pendant into his pocket, making a mental note to stay out of Sherlock's reach, knowing that the man had devilishly fast fingers.

"He doesn't mind," Sherlock said quickly.

"Yes, I actually do mind," Harry answered, glaring at the man.

"Yes, which is why I will be keeping the pendant until I know what the hell is going on here," John added, and turned to Harry. "Why were you locked up in this thing? I assume there was a reason."

Harry hesitated and then looked away. "There was a fight. I sort of lost," he said, running a hand through his hair. "And then I sort of won, but that was after my side got hold of my locket. It's a… long story. And I probably shouldn't tell it to you anyway."

"Order him to tell us, John," Sherlock said quickly.

"No, I won't," the doctor snapped. "If he doesn't want to tell us, he shouldn't have to." While Sherlock scowled disappointedly at him, he very determinately looked away, and back at Harry. "Is there someone you would like us to take you?" he asked then, making Harry start a little and look up with surprise. "If you've only been in the pendant for eleven years, it stands to reason there still might be around some people who know you," John said, shrugging his shoulders. "I imagine you'd rather be with them."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock said with deep disappointment, scowling at John. "It's a once in a eternity opportunity, and you want to hand him back, John? I thought you were better than this."

"He's a person, Sherlock, not a thing. Slavery is bad, remember?" John glared back and looked at Harry. "Well?"

"There… isn't really anyone. Well, anyone I would like to see, anyway," Harry answered, twiddling his fingers a bit and shrugging. "I sort of arranged that those who held my locket lost it – it didn't want them to… have that authority over me. It wasn't… safe. For anyone."

"How could you arrange it?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Since you're slave to the locket?"

"The fact that I have to follow the locket's possessor's orders doesn't mean I can't act independently. Unless they specifically order me not to, I can still do some things on my own," Harry answered. "I made it so that the person who held me left me behind and forgot me. It was better that way."

"John, quickly, order him so that he can't do that to us."

"Sherlock, stop that," John snapped back, without looking at his flatmate. "Is there somewhere you might like us to take you, then? If there's no one you'd like us to hand the locket to? Or…" he considered it and then continued, "is there a way for us to free you from the locket?"

"John!" Sherlock objected loudly.

"No, there isn't," Harry answered, not sounding too bothered by it. "Not even wizards could do anything about it, and lot of them tried. There's nothing you can do." He leaned back a bit, looking from John to Sherlock and then back again. "You seem like a decent bloke, so I think I'd prefer for you to keep the locket for now. Not him," he added, pointing at Sherlock. "Him I don't like."

"I don't blame you," John said sympathetically.

"Hmph. Whose side are you on, anyway?" Sherlock muttered, folding his arms and sulking. He was giving John's pocket some contemplative looks, though, which made John quickly turn back to Harry.

"Is there a way you can make it so that Sherlock can't get his hands on the locket?" he asked, making the wizard brighten a bit.

"Oh, come on!" Sherlock objected like a child whose favourite toy was taken from him.

x

I have no idea what this is, or how to continue it. Will have to figure something out, I guess. Or not

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	48. Cycles, SH x HP

Warnings; yet another Sherlock bbc x Harry Potter cross. And AU to boot. **Trigger warning for John being injured/tortured in a war.** Also fail!understanding over British armed forces. Pre!series.

Summary; If only it had been just a bullet wound in his shoulder. But it wasn't.

**Cycles**

John had been in Camp Bastion for three days, lying uselessly in a bed, when he finally found out what was going on. Not that he didn't already know some of it, of course – having been captured, most likely tortured, wounded, and having some problems recalling _any_ of it was clear indication that something was going on. And despite the fact that the RAMC officers that milled about kept tiptoeing around the subject, he knew that all of that happened. Why else would've he woken up, covered in bandages, with his mind resolutely refusing to remember a single detail of how he had gotten to that state?

His shoulder was killing him – twisting, pulsing, _tugging_ with pain beneath the blood sodden bandages. John wasn't sure why he hadn't been given any proper medicine for that, but he didn't argue – he was a field medic, it was his job to keep people from bleeding out before rescue came, and the people tending to him were specialists, they knew what they were doing. He just wished that they would just tell him. Did he have an infection, something viral, had whatever that they had done to him hit a nerve – would he lose the arm that wouldn't stop shaking? And what in bloody hell was wrong with his leg anyway, it kept him wake at night and yet there wasn't a single thing wrong with it as far as he could tell.

He was about to call in the nurse to try and see if he could persuade the attending doctor to tell him what the hell was going on, when someone entered his tent – _his tent_, whatever had happened to him must be pretty damn serious since they had given him a _private_ tent. John looked up blearily – wondering if he's fighting fever, probably, god knows what sort of bugs he had gotten whist captured. The person who entered was young, dark haired, somewhat tall, and definitely not a member of the army – not in shirt and jeans.

"Please don't tell me you're a shrink," John said before he could try and filter his words.

The man smiled, pushing his slightly stained glasses higher up his nose. "I'm not military," he said, while carrying his briefcase to the chair beside the trolley where John lay. He turned the chair so that John couldn't see the case past the backrest. "My name is Harry Potter – I'm a… specialist, of sort," the man said without looking at him, concentrating instead onto the case which he had opened.

"Did they give me some exotic local disease?" John asked with a sigh and wondered if the pain in his shoulder was not the memento of a torture, but instead NF or something else – though in that case, why hadn't they operated yet?

"Well. One could say so, though it's not a disease," Potter answered, and brought out something that made John's thought process pause for a moment in sheer incomprehension. He had to blink and take another look, just to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing.

"Is that a _scroll_?" he asked finally.

"Yes. I need you to sign it," Potter said, taking out a pen – a _fountain_ pen – before turning the table at John's bed's side, placing the scroll and the pen on it. "It's a sort of confidentiality agreement. After you sign it, you're bound by law to never share what you learn from me with anyone else – not unless they are already aware of the facts, or you are told otherwise."

John blinked at that before, with a badly muffled groan, forcing himself into a seated position. "Whatever I got must be pretty damn serious," he mutters. "Did UK start using chemical warfare when I wasn't looking?"

"Not as far as I know. Sign the thing and I'll tell you everything," Potter said with a grin and waited, looking very out of place in his somewhat casual green shirt and faded jeans. "Sign right here," he added, pointing one of two lines near the bottom.

John frowned, and then looked at the paper – _parchment_, god it was really parchment. The writing in it was loopy and flowery, and he couldn't tell the capital Ts from Fs and Is and Js looked almost the same. In the end, the text was too elegant for his modern brain to comprehend, and he signed the line with his own, awkward _John H. Watson_, which looked as out of place on the elegant scroll as Potter looked in the room.

"Alright, thank you," Potter said, taking the pen and turning the parchment. He signed the other line, before scrolling the parchment into a tight tube and taking something from his suitcase. As John watched in pained incomprehension, he brandished a stick of wax and a lighter and made an honest-to-god wax seal – marking it with a bulky ring he had in the middle finger of his right hand. A _signet_ ring.

"Am I dreaming this?" John asked, as Potter put the scroll away. "I am, aren't I? No, this is a hallucination and I'm still being held captive."

"I'm afraid not, though I'd think you'd be happy about not being held captive," Potter chuckled, sitting down to the bed just beside John's aching left leg. "Now I need to do something a bit weird, never mind me, and then we're going to have a talk," the man started, walking away from John's bed side. John couldn't see what Potter did, exactly, only that it involved some hand waving and walking to every corner of the tent.

"There we go," Potter said, returning to his side. "Now we have some proper privacy. I'm going to tell you some things which all sound impossible, ludicrous and a bit like a children's story you might've read while in middle school. You're entitled to your disbelief, but remember – I wouldn't be here if it wasn't approved not just by your superiors, but the heads of your military – actually, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't approved by the Prime Minister. Which is it – I have a paper to prove it, in case you want to see it, he has a very nice signature, did you know?"

John opened his mouth and then shook his head. "Actually I didn't," he admitted. "Are you serious?"

"Let me start explaining things to you, and you can ask me that again, alright?" Potter asked with a mild smile before folding his arms. "Before I start, I want to ask you something. Have you ever seen something that you'd be a bit hard pressed to explain? Which no one would believe because_you_ don't believe it – which the laws of nature and science don't explain?"

"You're not serious," the wounded soldier said flatly.

"I'm just asking a question," Potter shrugged, but he kept looking at John keenly. "Have you?"

Under the serious, green eyed stare, John thought about it for a moment, smothering the urge to rub his aching shoulder – it was pulsing with pain. When he was completely honest… yes, he had seen. In Afghanistan more than once – a bomb going off, of which no one ever found any evidence of. Gunshot wounds with no bullets. Knife wounds, burns, where there were no knifes or fires. He once treated a young soldier with a frost bite - a bloody_frost bite_ in Helmand! And then there were the ghost stories. Of a squad out on patrol, all of whom were later found all in deep psychosis – of a man who had gone out to take a piss and then had been discovered dead, dried up and withered like a mummy.

"Once, back when I was in university, there was one day," John said slowly, thinking back. "I saw the front windows of this café blow out, shatter all around the street. I took cover behind a phone booth, thinking that the place was going to blow up – gas explosion, or something. When I looked up, it was like nothing had happened."

"That's it?" Potter asked, looking at him closely.

"No," John admitted, and told some of the ghost stories, of the odd wounds he had treated. Potter listened without a hint of disbelief and ridicule, and just nodded once he was done.

"That sounds about right," Potter agreed. "I can't go into specific explanations for those incidents, not knowing the complete details, but they can all be explained by single word. Magic."

John frowned at him. "Seriously."

"Seriously," Potter nodded, and took something out of his sleeve – a long, sleek piece of wood, rather like a conducting rod. John figured that it wasn't just that, though, when Potter tapped it gently against the empty water glass on the bedside table, and filled it with water that seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Magic is the biggest and often poorest kept secret in the world," Potter said, while taking the glass into his hand. With the wooden rod, he somehow coaxed the water out of the glass, and to float up into the air in swirls and curls that flowed smoothly across the air – and then, at Potter's command, freeze into solid ice, that fell to John's lap. "Magic has existed as long as the humanity has, and it exists these days too, but in secret. Every nation in the world has its community of magic users, all whom live in hiding, in their own little communities, with their own governments."

While John gingerly poked at the spiral of ice – it really _is_ ice – Potter turned to take something else out of his suitcase. It looked a bit like jeweller's scope, but not quite. As he took off his glasses, fitting the scope to his right eye, he kept on talking.

"About one tenth of a percent of the population can use magic – it's something they're born with," he said. "Normally we keep to our selves –" he pauses at John's sharp look and nods with a smile, "yes, obviously I am a magic user myself. It's against our laws to reveal ourselves to people without similar abilities – the paper you signed is in a sense not only a confidentiality agreement, but also the official papers of your citizenship. It's rare for someone with no magic in their family to get that, but you're something of a special case – so now you have a citizenship with the magical world."

Finally finding his voice again, John swallowed and opened his mouth. "Why me?"

"Because what you have in your shoulder isn't a wound, or a disease. It's a spell," Potter explained, and smiled. "Mind undressing for me a bit? I think it's time I have a look at it."

A bit disbelieving but curious despite it, John quickly – though clumsily – opened the front of his hospital pyjamas and let the top fall off, while Potter arranged the bed's into a seated position. "Lean back," the black haired man said while taking the spiral of ice and putting it into the empty glass, and John did, watching curiously. Once he was situated to the man's liking, Potter peered at the bloody bandages covering his left shoulder.

"I'm going to cut these, it might sting a bit. Try and stay still," the man ordered, and then ran his wooden rod – his _wand_, probably – over the bandages. They cut smoothly and cleanly without any blade, almost as if the wand had produced a laser like beam which John couldn't see.

Then he saw what the bandages had been hiding and forgot all about it. His shoulder was a mess – but not in a way John had suspected. There, just into the hollow of the clavicle, someone had carved symbols into his flesh. They were as fresh as if someone had went at him with a knife just moments before, still bleeding and without any sign of healing. The symbols formed an odd oval shape, with a diamond star in the middle of it.

"Oh my god," John breathed, staring at the bleeding wounds even while Potter used his wand to siphon the blood away. "What _is_ that?"

"Hm," Potter hummed, without answering, just staring at the wound with his scope. He tugged gently at the flesh of John's shoulder, to smoothen out the symbols, and the soldier hissed with pain as the wounds were stretched. "Sorry," the black haired man said, and then pulled back. "I am very, very sorry."

"Oh god," John moaned. "Am I going to die?"

"Not just yet. But you're probably going to have a very difficult life," Potter said with a mirthless smile, before turning to his suitcase. This time he turned the entire chair so that John could see inside it – and if he hadn't been so terrified of his shoulder all of sudden, he might've been curious about its insides. Though on the outside it looked nothing out of the ordinary, inside it looked rather like something he might've seen n a vampire movie – it had aged looking bottles, some small pocket books with drayed leather covers and yellow pages, and some beautifully designed tools that would've been more at home in the Victorian era.

"I'm going to stop the bleeding – it won't heal the wounds, and it will feel bloody awful, but it'll keep you from bleeding out," Potter said, taking a small jar of something and opening it. "Take a deep breath and try not to trash," he ordered, and John took that as a very bad sign.

It was. It felt like someone had put iodine, salt and everything in between into the wounds, when Potter carefully spread the salve across the open cuts. It was very hard not to wince back, even harder to keep the grunts and gasps of pain to himself, and worse yet the pain _stayed_ even after Potter had pulled his hands back, prickling at the wounds like million tiny blades. The bleeding_did_ stop, but the burning, pin needle agony that was left behind made John wonder if it was worth it.

"It'll stop in a moment," Potter soothed him, while using his wand to clean away whatever blood was left, leaving behind relatively clean – though agonized – shoulder.

"Nice to know," John grunted through gritted teeth, and glanced down. The wounds glistened clean and ferociously red now, open gaps where the skin had been sliced off. He was always going to have the wounds, he realised. The scars would look _awful_. "What is it?" he forced the question out, needing to know.

"That's what I'm here to find out," Potter said, taking the scope again. "The spell isn't quite finished yet – that's why it was bleeding and that's why it hurts so much, it's still, hm, rooting itself."

"And you can't remove it?" John asked desperately.

"I could, but I would have to take about this big junk out of you along with it," Potter said, circling approximate area around the wound with his finger. "But that would take your entire shoulder, your neck, your left lung and your heart out in the process, so I think that's not an option."

John let out a strangled chuckle and leaned his head back. "Fuck life," he grunted.

"Yeah. But, if it's any comfort, whatever this is, it's not a curse," Potter said, peering at the wound again. "It's very crude work and I have some extremely bad feelings about it, but it's not designed to harm you or kill you. It's something else," he trailed away and frowned. "I won't know what before it's done rooting, though."

"Great," John muttered and swallowed. The pain was finally, albeit very slowly, fading. "How long will that take?"

"Couple of weeks more, I think," Potter said and then took the scope off, turning to face him. "There is a chance that it can be contained – spells that affect the body are rather like infections at time, they can be fought back with other spells, sometimes even completely neutralised. We'll know more in two weeks, but you will have to hang on there for a while longer."

"Alright. Yes, alright," John said, taking a deep breath and releasing. "What about my leg?" he then asked, glancing down. "There is nothing wrong with it, but it bloody _hurts_. It's that a spell too?"

"Let me have a look," Potter said and stood up, pulling back John's comforter and turning his attention to the said leg. He took the jeweller's scope again, and went through John's leg inch by inch, before straightening up. "It's part of the spell on your shoulder, somehow," he said, frowning. "That's… not a good sign."

"Great. That's just what I need, another bad sign," John groaned and closed his eyes. "Is it going to spread?"

"That's… more than likely," Potter said apologetically. "Captain Watson," he then said, making John open his eyes. "I'll be sticking around here for the process, and I am relatively confident of the fact that I can keep you alive through this. But it is going to be painful."

"I got that, yeah," John said, staring at him and then sighing. "I'll soldier through it. Just… tell me something. What are the chances that I'll recover enough to return to active duty?"

Potter hesitated and then sighed. "I can't say for sure right now, not before the spell is finished, but… I wouldn't hold any high hopes."

John sighed and closed his eyes. "Do you know what happened to the people who did this to me?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Nothing good – the rescue operation, I hear, went a bit FUBAR," the specialist said, shaking his head.

The wounded soldier considered that for a moment and then nodded. "Good."

x

I've read a few stories where John was some sort of magical creature, and the bullet that got him in Afghanistan was blessed or somesuch, and I got to thinking. will continue - I have plaaans, precious…

My apologies for possible grammar errors etc


	49. Sheen, HP x Temeraire

Warnings; Harry potter AU (to be crossed with Temeraire).

**Sheen**

There was a twinge of pain somewhere in Harry – he couldn't tell exactly where, he never could – as he made his way down a narrow path and through some bushes, going deeper into the Forbidden Forest with each step. He ignored the odd, ever lingering pain, and took in the forest around him. It was verdantly green with the early summer's growth, with beams of light coming down from the upper canopy, making the faintest of fogs around him glow – and all around him, the new green growths glimmered, when the light hit the dew on hundreds of thousands of pedals and stalks. It was beautiful – and it smelled even better.

"Should've thought to visit this place during spring time earlier," he murmured, taking support of an ancient tree and jumping over a high root. Almost every time he had somehow ended up in the forbidden forest, it had either been late autumn, early winter, or late winter – when the greenery was wither preparing to sleep, already sleeping, or just barely out of sleep. Seven years, six of them spent mostly in the castle, and he had missed how beautiful the place could become.

And the sounds too – there was a brook somewhere near by, rippling and flowing with crystal clear sound. There were birds seemingly _everywhere_, singing joyfully and jumping from one three to another – he startled few of them out of the under growth even, and had to pause to admire them as they hurried up, up and away. And the trees rustled, slow and ancient and soothing.

It was almost a pity that he wasn't there just to admire the place. It took something away from the enjoyment of it, the fact it wasn't the goal of his venture.

Sighing, Harry lowered his eyes and looked around him. There, few broken branches so high that nothing that normally lived in the forest could've broken them. She had been here. With a smile, he started moving again, each step hurting somewhere deep inside, each breath like a needle inside him, but not as bad as it had been once.

And there, he could see it – a sheen of glimmering pearly white in the distance, just barely visible through the trees and young, excited shoots.

He paused for a moment, staring at the shine, waiting. There was no movement; the shine didn't alter, so cautiously he continued to move, careful not to disturb the ground beneath him too badly, trying to not make noise. It wasn't that he was afraid, exactly – nor that he though she'd flee or react badly at the sight of him. But he didn't want to alarm her, not now – not after all the time it had taken to find her.

More of the pearly shine, vast, vast expense – higher than Hagrid's hut, longer than a Quidditch stand. The light played on the pearly shine, glimmering and dancing, a sight more magical than many other things Harry had seen in the magical world. The closer he got, the more he saw, and the brighter, dreamier the shine got – reflecting little bit of green here and there, when the light reflected from the greenery around her. And then, there, he could a spike. She was with her back to him, and probably asleep, judging by her stillness, the way her side rouse and descended in even, slow rhythm.

Then he was at her side, admiring her. It wasn't just the colouring, all pearly white like she had been made of the stuff, shining like someone had spent eons polishing her. But the form too; long, sleek, each scale precise and even, each descend and dib of muscle long and elegant. The massive wings, neatly folded at her sides, the translucent folds of skin overlapping each other, with bluish veins shining through. The spikes that crowned her spine were equally sleek – almost smooth, with elegant curves and sharp ends.

Swallowing, Harry turned to follow her spine, cautious with each step, until he got to her head, resting on top of a mossy rock, her eyes closed and her breathing coming out in slow gusts. She had a long face with strong jaw, small horns framing it at the bottom, and longer ones crowning it at the top. Each scale of her face was arranged perfectly, each with its own glimmering shine, but all of them contributing perfectly to the overall image.

Harry had never been much for art, but she was as close to artistic perfection as he imagined any living being could be.

With a smile, he walked around her head, careful, careful, until he was at her front. She had her forelegs tucked to her chest, fingers curled and dangerous, sharp talons safely tucked away. And by heaven, she was big. She had been enormous from behind, but from the front he could see the whole extend of her without the wings standing in the way – long, from snout to tail tip she was probably as long as a proper Quidditch field, and he could only wonder how wide her wing span was. How much she weighed, he wondered. She was clearly too big to fit the Hogwarts Great Hall in her great expanse, so her weight must've been enormous.

As he watched her, admiring her openly, she stirred, inhaled, and opened one dreamy blue eye. "What do you think of me, Harry Potter?" she asked, her voice deep and low but still feminine, rumbling inside her.

"You're… rather pretty, Luna," he admitted, smiling. Somehow he was not at all surprised that she managed to speak, even in her animagus form.

She made a sound that was almost a purr, and lifted her head, yawning enormously. Harry stared in open fascination at the wideness of her jaws, the rows of teeth, of fangs. She could've bitten the Basilisk he had fought in his second year in half with one single bite!

"Why are you here, Harry?" she asked, once she was done yawning, shifting so that she was lying more on her belly than her side, her forehands tucked to her chest in manner Harry had seen cats do.

"Just felt like something I ought to do," he admitted, and gingerly sat onto the mossy rock she had been using as her pillow. "Hogwarts been more or less fixed and the Ministry is standing on its feet, so I have the time to do rounds and see that everyone is okay." He looked thoughtfully up at her, as she gazed down at him with that old, familiar dreamy stare that didn't seem to really see him, but something around him. "How are you, Luna?"

"I'm very good. The forest is… very pleasant," she said, her tail curling along her side, so long that the tip came to rest against the rock beneath Harry. "You're not asking what you're really curious about, though."

"Like what?" Harry asked, and smiled. "If there was ever a witch to manage animagus transformation of a dragon, it was bound to be you. And if there was ever a witch who would rather live as a dragon than as a witch, it was you. I'm not all that surprised."

"Aren't you?" Luna asked, sounding pleasantly surprised. "Daddy wasn't too happy," she admitted then, ducking her head a little and looking at her curled, scaly fore hands. "He comes here every day to try and convince me to go back. And he keeps telling me that if I don't someone will find me and I will be put to a dragon sanctuary against my will."

"He's only worried about you, I think," Harry said, stretching out his legs and sighing, turning his face up. There was a beam of warm light coming right down on him. "After what happened to you, the captivity at Voldemort's hand and everything, who can blame him?"

The dragon in front of him said nothing, looking up instead. For a long moment they both enjoyed the sunlight coming down at them, before she finally spoke again, "How are you, Harry? How is everyone?"

"They're fine," Harry said, smiling. "Hermione and Ron just got engaged, they're in Australia right now, looking for Hermione's parents. Kingsley Shacklebolt was voted as the Minister for Magic. Neville is going to start apprenticeship under sprout next September. Hmm… Ginny is going on a world tour this summer with her brother Bill and his wife, Fleur…" he continued on a little longer, telling what he knew of everyone's plans.

Luna listened silently, her eyes straying from him to the forest around them. "And you?" she asked, once he was done. "There is something strange about you."

"Hm, maybe a bit," Harry agreed and chuckled, lifting a hand to his chest. "I'm dying," he admitted, making her flick her pale blue eyes at him. Quickly he waved a hand dismissively. "It's not that bad, really. An after effect of what happened during the battle. My magic's pretty much gone, now, and my body can't handle being without magic when there is magic around me, so it's…" he trailed away, trying to think of a good way of describing it. "It's trying to draw magic back into me, which is killing me."

Luna said nothing for a moment, just looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she then said. "I don't suppose there is a place on earth you could go, where it wouldn't happen?"

"Not really. Earth is inherently magical. Some places have more of magic than others, but it's everywhere," Harry shrugged. "I'm not that bothered about it – I still got year or two. It's good enough for me."

"You've always been a bit fatalistic," she mused, lowering her head a bit and peering at him. "Is that why you're here – to say good bye?"

Harry paused a bit at that. Fatalistic? Was he really? "Well, sort of, I guess," he admitted, smiling and reaching a hand to touch her snout. It was warm, and smoother than he had expected – softer too. "I suppose I am making my peace now, so that I can spend the next years enjoying the time I have left. Seems like a better idea than doing it at the last moment in rush."

"I suppose that makes sense," the dragon rumbled, leaning into his palm just a bit, closing her eyes. Then she drew back and stood, stretching like a cat before unfolding her long, pearly wings and stretching those too. Harry admired her openly, leaning back on the rock to see the full expanse of those big wings.

"It must be really something, to be a dragon," he mused. "I don't suppose you intend to be human ever again?"

"I don't know. I might, but… no," she answered, sitting back on her haunches with her wings tucked in – they were so long that the ends of her wing tips rested on the ground behind her. "I don't much like being human, anymore. There were good points to it but…"

"Human beings are weak," Harry agreed to the unspoken statement sadly. She had been tortured rather badly, so badly that he hadn't heard a word of Bibbling Humdingers or Nargles from her since – so badly, that she had lost that odd, magical innocence she had had. "Is it very different, being a dragon?"

"I think differently, now," she admitted thoughtfully, humming. "Not that much, but just enough, that the memories don't bother me any more, and I sleep easy. Dragons don't have nightmares, you know."

"I'm glad to hear it," the wizard said, a little jealous. "But isn't it a bit lonely, t be here all by yourself?"

"A little, but it's better here. I can't go off as a dragon however I'd like, and I don't want to go to the sanctuaries. Dragons aren't normally… all that sociable," she mused, and then looked down at him. "And no one bothers me here, and no one would even if they knew I was here."

The wizard said nothing, just nodded. No one would ever bully a dragon, that much was true. It was still sad that the world had driven Luna to the point where she felt that such defence was necessary. "Well, if it's what you want, and what you like, then I'm glad for you," he said. "Do you need anything here, though? Do you have food and comfort and whatnot? I have some money and little to do with it, so if you need anything…"

"I am fine. There are lot of big spiders here that none of the other creatures don't much care for, and I've found I like the taste and the crunchiness," Luna admitted. "And there is some greenery I can eat here too. I am… content."

"I'm happy to hear it," Harry said.

"I wouldn't mind things to read," the dragon then murmured. "But I don't suppose there is a way I could, like this," she added, lifting one of her fore hands and spreading her talons. She still had something like an opposable thumb, but each of her fingers was adorned by a long, curving talon. "I would rip any book I held to shreds, even if they were big enough for me to hold."

"I suppose," Harry agreed. "Unless it was a very special sort of book."

"Hm," Luna hummed, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. "Would you like to take a walk around?" she then asked. "I've found some interesting things here. There is a beautiful water fall not far from them. Would you like to see it?"

"I'd love to," Harry said, and stood up.

xx

I've been dragonifying Harry so many times that I think it's time for someone else. Luna's specific breed is Antipodean Opaleye, which are "...generally considered one of the most beautiful dragons with pearly scales that line its body," according to Harry Potter wiki. Will be a longish Harry Potter x Temeraire one shot, once finished.

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	50. Kindness

Warnings; Post Deathly Hallows AU, some OOCness, characters death, mentions of torture. A Would-Be-Crossover.

**Kindness**

Harry lifted his head up tiredly from his contemplation of the cell floor and looked up to the dark lord who had just stepped inside. "You look good," he said with a wry tilt to his smile.

"Thank you, Harry," Lord Voldemort answered with a smile, running a hand over his re-worked facial features. Gone was the pallid skin, replaced by a healthy flush; the nose reworked, hair, eyebrows and even eyelashes all re-grown. He still had red eyes, but aside from them he looked like Tom Riddle might've at his early thirties: healthy, strong, handsome, and more or less human.

"I'm afraid I cannot return the compliment," the man added, looking over him and Harry laughed softly, letting his head hang. It had only been a week's worth of captivity so far, but it didn't agree with him. He was bruised, pale, sickly; he probably had a fever and infection, and the torture he had gone through under the hands of Voldemort's followers still made him tremble every now and then. Not to mention that he hadn't had the chance to clean himself or fix or wash his clothing in days and days.

"Doesn't really matter at this point, does it?" he asked and shook his head. He was defeated and he knew it – and entirely too tired to keep on fighting or being angry. He had held onto hope for as long as he had been able to, since Hogwarts' fall and near destruction. Running, fighting, trying to save people, trying to kill them, and all the while hiding, trying to keep himself and those with him alive – with increasingly poor success. Months since that fatal day he was tired, worn, and more than ready to stop.

"Oh, but it does," Voldemort said, stepping forward and going down to one knee in front of his broken prisoner, with a look of mingled fascination and amusement on his face. "Ah, Harry Potter. What would I do if I had ten men like you working under me – if I had even just one of you under me, when I first begun. Wizarding world would've been mine under five years, less even."

"I won't join you," Harry said, lifting his head just enough to look at the man. There was no strength in the words, but they were firm and true; he'd die before and die _happily_ before he'd join Voldemort, and they both knew it.

"I know, I know," the dark lord said and sighed. "It is a pity, but I know."

Harry said nothing, just looked at the man and waited for a moment for him to continue. Voldemort didn't, just stared at him with his red, oddly disappointed eyes, and sighing Harry spoke; "What happens now, Tom?"

Curiously enough, the words didn't make the man in front of him as much flinch, when before the slightest mention of the name would've had him flying into a rage. "Well," the dark lord said, slightest of smiles coming to his thin lips. "That's the thing, isn't it? What do you think?"

Harry shook his head and didn't answer. The obvious thing would be that Voldemort would kill him, but he doubted it now. Something had happened when the man had claimed the Elder Wand – something had changed. What was in front of him was no more that insane half man, half something else that he had seen rise from the cauldron. The renewed humanity about Voldemort's features was a clear proof of it. And Voldemort had gone through some pains to make sure Harry was brought to him alive and relatively unharmed – that _meant_ something.

"What do you suppose would follow, if I were to kill you now?" Voldemort asked, smiling. "You would become a martyr, as well as a hero. It would first strike all hope out of those who would oppose me, but the memory of you would fester in the minds and hearts of those who believed in you, fester over months and years and you would become an icon and a symbol greater than you were before. And eventually, there would be an uprising in your name."

"Easy enough for someone like you to stop, I'm sure," Harry answered with a slow blink.

"True, but troublesome nonetheless," Voldemort said, shaking his head. He was still kneeling there, like some knight of old in front of his kin, on that dirty cell floor – it was somehow _perverse_, a mocking reflection of the whole affair. "Now, if I were to keep you prisoner, it would be better and worse. I would have you under my power, and you would be a _display_ of my power. I would be the man with the hero under his heel," the dark lord continued, still smiling his slight, mirthless smile. "And you would be the damsel in distress, sort of speak. An example at first – then a goal for those who oppose me, and a beacon of light. If only they could save you, things could chance, they would think."

"I'd probably have killed myself before your hypothetical _they_ got their act together," Harry answered with a crooked smile.

"And if I were to inform the world you had, they wouldn't believe me and just think that I had spun a tale to quench any attempts of saving you. No," the dark lord chuckled, shaking his head. "I will not keep you prisoner."

"Alright," Harry agreed, shaking his head. "You won't kill me, and you won't keep me captive. What will you do then, turn me into a statue to display in Diagon Alley for all the world to see?" he asked, and smiled a little. "No, I suppose not, someone might transform me back."

"No," Voldemort agreed. "Any atrocity I could perform on you, kill you, destroy you, keep you captive… as enjoyable as it would be, you would be martyred for your cause no matter what I did." He lifted his hand, his fingers still long and slender though the skin was no longer so white, and held up one finger. "But," he continued. "If I were to show you kindness, and display that kindness for the world…"

"You are _not_ going to let me go," Harry laughed dryly.

"No, I will not," the Dark Lord agreed. "But in the same time perhaps I am. Anyway I keep you, dead or alive or changed, you are threat to me. But if I let you go, and if I let you go with all my well wishes and going as far as to do everything in my power to aid your passage – and let the world see my actions… I will stop being the horrible, unforgivable tyrant; I become the conqueror treating his enemy with admirable mercy and honour. And after that, people will remember _what I did for you_, the measures I went to for you."

Harry blinked and then frowned, looking at the man and wondering how serious he was being. "You are not going to let me go," he said again, but this time it came out more as a question than a statement. Voldemort couldn't; no matter how much kindness the man showed to him, the moment Harry would be out he'd be back in the fight against him, fighting harder than ever. "I won't just stand by while you tyrannise Britain. I won't."

Voldemort smiled and stood up, smoothing a hand along the hem of his robes and brushing away some of the dirt. "You wouldn't, I'm sure," he agreed. "If I let you go in _this world_. But I will not. What I intend to do is to banish you to an alternate reality, a different world, where you can live out your life, perhaps even prosper – but from where you can never return."

His mouth hanging open, Harry watched as the Dark Lord bowed slightly at him, all politeness, before turning to leave without further word, both of them knowing that there'd be nothing Harry could do to stop him, nothing he could do to prevent what was about to come.

"Voldemort," he called, as the cell door was opened. "What do you mean you will do everything in your power to aid me?" he asked, suspicious.

"Just that," the man said amiably. "I will have all your worldly possessions brought in, your wealth in Gringotts included, and anything else you may wish which you can take with you as you depart. And, since you will be losing your magic, I will grant you amends; an ability of your choosing, magicless one, or perhaps expertise which possibly will cover some of the loss. And with these you will depart, as a lesser man than you were before, perhaps, but not a poor or helpless one."

Harry blinked, shocked, and with another nod of his head Voldemort departed.

x

When Voldemort visited him the next, Harry was in much a better state. Two days had passed, and in those two days three healers had seen to him, first to assess his condition, second to heal him and third to argue against his decision; Harry had plead them not to heal his scars, which they would've liked to do. "If I am going to lose this world, I will keep its touches," Harry had muttered, and kept his head until they had relented.

Now he felt as good as he ever had, and even though he had kept the reminders of his abuse, he couldn't feel them as anything more than slight tightness of skin here and there. He had even been granted a bath and clean clothing, both purely muggle in nature, as his guards and caregivers had all been ordered not to use magic or bring wands to his presence. The healers had been the only exception to this, and they only with four guards present, and watching Harry's every motion keenly. He did not mind, however – the warm bath had been a luxury he hadn't been expecting, and the clothing felt nearly divine: wholly unblemished and free from the hardened blood unlike his old ones.

So, Voldemort found him in good health and somewhat good spirits. "Much better," the Dark Lord said in appreciation, as he stepped inside and closed the cell door behind him. "I trust you've been treated well?"

"With perfect courtesy," Harry answered, shaking his head, more bemused by it than anything else. Sure, the Dark Lord had promised kindness, but Harry hadn't expected that kindness to begin so soon, and from Voldemort's followers as well as the man himself. Yet, no one had as much pushed him, or even offered a unkind word; his guards and caregivers had been amiable and polite, even if somewhat rigidly so. Even the food had been better lately – Harry had had mashed potatoes and stake with plenty of steamed veggies for his last meal, much to his surprise and delight.

"Good, good," Voldemort said, looking him over and nodding with satisfaction. After a moment of consideration, the man smiled. "It is starting," he said. "The wheels are in motion – the public knows of my plans for you. Of course, to their eyes those plans are the Minister's, and I will not be mentioned by name, but those with intelligence to read the truth beneath the fiction will know. The portal to take you will be build in the heart of Diagon Alley – in week's time, you will be transported."

Harry nodded. He figured that there would be no wait, no delay, though he hadn't expected Voldemort to publicly announce his intentions, not so soon. There was a risk there, after all – risk of someone trying to break Harry free before the deed was done, now that they had this warning. But, then again… who was there left to release him?

He looked away and for a moment neither of them said anything. "Tell me," Harry then spoke. "Hermione and Ron…"

"They have been buried," Voldemort said almost softly. "Heroes' graves in Hogwarts grounds, along with those who fell in the battle, and those who died in the last… incidents."

Harry nodded, bowing his head slightly and closing his eyes. So, they were dead. He had suspected; he had seen them fall to the flashing of green, but… now he knew for sure. He only wished he had enough strength of will left to mourn. It would come later, he suspected, when all was said and done and he'd have eternity of banishment left to spend by himself. "Thank you," he said instead, and opted not to enquire after the rest of the Weasleys. If they were dead, they were no doubt buried. If not, they were imprisoned, or would soon be dead. At this point, as helpless as he was, he did wish not to know which it was.

"What little of your possessions we have been able to find have been delivered to the Ministry, to wait for the day," Voldemort said then. "And the goblins Gringotts are already in the process of transferring your wealth into gold bars, which I think will be easier to manage on the other side, than coins of a nonexistent nation would be. What is left is for you to make your choice."

"My choice?" the prisoner asked, looking up.

"I promised you a boon: ability, or expertise," Voldemort said. "If it is within my capabilities of granting you, I will. You cannot have magic – indeed, we will have it sealed before you go, just in case – but I am willing to grant you any muggle ability you choose. Or profession; I could turn you into a learned, specialised muggle doctor, if you chose. Or a scientist."

Harry smiled faintly and shook his head. "Tempting," he said. "But how much use it would be, I have no knowing on this side. Would there be call for medicine, or science? I might be the foremost expert of any given branch of learning, only to find that there is absolutely no calling for it. I could become an astronomer, only to find that there are no stars on the other side."

"True enough," Voldemort granted with an amused tilt to his lips. "But I doubt you would rather choose to go without any advantage."

"No, I intend to make every possible use of your offer," Harry agreed with a sigh, smiling wryly. "If you can boost my ability to learn and memorise, I would appreciate it. I've always been a bad study, so make me a genius of learning. If you can do it, that will do."

"Very good," Voldemort said, sounding impressed. "That way you can learn any expertise you will require on the other side; very good indeed, Harry."

The prisoner just shook his head and looked away. He wished it was his own thought, but it wasn't. No, it was motivated by Hermione, more than not; in the past year and more, he had been always relying on her, on her ability to learn, her memorisation and intelligence. She had kept him and Ron alive and afloat for years now. Without her, without her abilities, he'd be doomed, especially in alternate reality which could be who knew how different. So, he would need to step up and learn himself, if he wished to survive – and even after all of this, he didn't want to die.

"I think it can be managed," the Dark Lord said after a moment. "Ability to learn and memorise. Yes, I think it will do; however, you must brace yourself to a painful transformation. Expertise or ability is one thing; complete overhaul of the way your mind functions is another. Even wizards can't do that without going at your brain directly."

"Wizards have such a thing as brain surgery?" Harry asked, a little amused. "I will be prepared; at this point I have very little to lose, and I've experienced enough pain to manage a bit more."

Voldemort nodded with a faint smile and then folded his arms. "Do you have any other requests, Harry?" he then asked. "As far as possessions go. I can still grant you some minute wishes, should you wish for some sort of equipment and whatnot."

"Just something to carry my possessions in and a secure box with a lock for the gold, and I think it will work fine," Harry said. "And muggle clothing for when the actual departure happens. If there is no magic in the other world, stepping through in wizard's robes might not be the best idea."

"I will see to it," the Dark Lord promised. "But nothing else?"

"Well. Perhaps some weapons, just in case. Knife or some such thing," Harry said and shook his head. "If I load myself with too many possessions, I will need a horse to carry them."

"I could get you that horse," Voldemort offered, sounding slightly amused. "As it is, I doubt you can actually carry your gold. You are not a poor man, after all, and gold bars are heavy."

"Well. Perhaps," Harry said, sighing. It was hard to plan ahead without knowing what was ahead – he would've preferred a car or a motorcycle, much easier to handle than a horse no doubt, but without knowing what the other world would be like… horse at least wouldn't seem too unnatural, if the world would have different sort of technology. Unless the other world had no horses either.

"There is still time to think about your choices, and you can put them forth later if you wish to; just inform your guard of them, and the word will reach my ears eventually," Voldemort said and ran his hand over his dark hair. "Now, however, I think I will see to your ability. Best to get that done as soon as possible, in case it is likely to take long. Do you need anything else, Harry?"

"I wouldn't mind a book or two to read; it's damned boring here," Harry admitted.

"I will have something delivered," Voldemort said and bowed his head. "Good day to you."

"And you, Voldemort."

x

The surgery took only a day, but it took Harry two more to recover from it. During those two days, time passed in a haze of potions and spells, and he was only vaguely aware of being restrained in a bed, and of the people that came and went and examined him with wand tips lit with magic. There was no pain, however, not then and not after, mostly thanks to the potions – but for a while there was a thin pink line running across his forehead, that he tried not to think too much.

He didn't feel different afterwards – not before taking up one of the few books he had been given, this one a romance novel about a warlock and a veela. The book was fairly boring and not all that interesting to Harry, but once had finished it, he found he couldn't get it out of his head. The words remained, echoing, and it took him a while to realise that he could remember single every word of it. From the start of the first paragraph: _The hall of the De La Fontaine stood high on the hill, framed by golden apple trees,_ to the ending of: _And there they stood silently in the wrecked ruins of the garden; together and still holding hands_.

Harry didn't dare to touch the other books, each as insipid as the romance novel, not really wanting to memorise them as well. He hadn't expected the effects of the surgery and whatever had been done to him to be so severe – he had hoped that he could merely learn a little faster, remember things a bit better, but no. He had been given photographic memory, it seemed, and despite the fact that it was what he had wanted, he was a little unnerved by it. He wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to remember everything he ever laid his eyes on, in it's fullest details.

But he did. Not just the books, but every corner of the cell, the outfit of his guard down to the loose threads on his sleeves and the stains at the collar, the pattern the threads were woven on his shirt sleeves, and everything else. And when Voldemort stepped in, magnificent in black robes embroidered with silver with emerald here and there, dark hair brushed back elegantly, he knew he'd remember everything of the man as well, down to the arrangement of his cravat, the way the hem of his robes moved, the polished gleam of his shoes.

"How do you feel?" the dark lord asked.

"Overwhelmed," Harry admitted, rubbing at his forehead and wondered if there was a way to look without the memorisation; he suspected not, not if they had indeed tampered with the very way his brain functioned. "I didn't think you to go this far. Photographic memory isn't something I was expecting."

"In that you are wrong – it is not photographic, but eidetic. Photographic would only include your eyes, after all. What you have is total recall of all your sensory input: visual, auditory, and everything else included. It is not so bad once you grow accustomed to it," Voldemort promised, and he looked satisfied. "And things do fade after a while, if you give it few years."

"So, I will remember every insipid phrase of that idiotic book for the next few years. Wonderful," Harry said and sighed, throwing a glance at the book that was now, and maybe forever, trapped in his memory. "Well, I have to applaud the healers for their work; it seems to have been successful beyond belief."

"I will pass on your compliments," the Dark Lord said and looked at him, considering. "Have you reconsidered any other abilities you might wish? We could heal your eyes, enable you to be ambidextrous, make you a polymath of languages…"

Harry paused. It was tempting, the first suggestion – his eyes and the glasses had always been something of a weakness. But… "No, thank you. I have more than enough abilities with this," he said, tapping his forehead. "And with this I suppose I will have no trouble learning languages, from here on."

"No, indeed not," Voldemort agreed and then shook his head. "Well, if you choose to decline all other possible offers, then we will seal your magic tomorrow."

Harry nodded, having been expecting as much. "How will it happen?" he asked.

"Series of runic seals will be tattooed your person – they will not in fact seal your magic as much as they will disperse it safely," Voldemort said. "Sealed magic has the tendency of bursting violently; these seals will instead make it so that your body will constantly expel your magic in safe manner, transforming it into heat energy. It will raise your natural core temperature by couple of degrees, perhaps, but nothing more."

Harry nodded, though he had to frown a bit at the idea of tattooed seals. He didn't bother arguing against them, though. He doubted Voldemort would've listened to him even if he had, and as a prisoner he had little choice but to accept. "Once it is done, might I have a… final request?" he asked tentatively.

"Name it and I will consider it," the Dark Lord said, eying him keenly.

"I would like to visit Hermione's and Ron's graves, and take some flowers if I can," Harry said. "And everyone else's too."

Voldemort considered it and then nodded. "Very well, I will take you there myself," he said. "Tomorrow, after the tattooing is done."

"Thank you," Harry said with a nod and lowered his eyes as the Dark Lord turned to leave. Sighing again, he rubbed at his forehead, closing his eyes. Well, he thought, at least this way he'd never forget what those graves looked like – and he might even get one final look at Hogwarts. He wouldn't mind that.

x

The tattoos looked like nothing Harry had expected, once they were done. It took better part of the morning and the afternoon for the four wizards working on him to finish their work, and afterwards he was left with what amounted to slightly inflamed black _streaks_, running along his back, his arms, down his chest and along the sides of his hips, thighs and legs. They were all straight, even somewhat futuristic looking – and there were no runes, no symbols, nothing. Just straight even black lines, running along his body.

He was still examining the stripe that ran over his elbow and down outer forearm to his wrist where it ended, blocky and angular, when Voldemort came. "They do not seem at all runic to me," he said, poling tentatively at the tender skin.

"The runes are in there, in different ink," Voldemort explained. "They are simply surrounded in background of equally black, but slightly different ink. They work, you may trust me on that, but this way there is no way to tell what runes were included in the seals.

"Oh," Harry said, peering at the black stripe for a moment longer before shaking his head. If there was any difference in the quality of the black of the tattoo, he couldn't see any. Not that it made any difference. "Well, I congratulate you for your security measures; though I wouldn't be able to tell one rune from another at any case, Ancient Runes wasn't a subject I ever studied."

"Still, it dos not hurt to be thorough," Voldemort smiled and eyed him from top to toe. "How do you feel?"

"Not at all different," Harry admitted. He had been trying to figure out if he did, if he felt some lack or loss, but he didn't. He felt exactly the same he had before the tattooing operation; the only difference he had been able to detect, was that he had grown hot in his clothing afterwards, had had discarded the outer robe rather quickly. He had a mild head ache, but that he contributed to the earlier brain surgery than to the magical sealing.

"Good," Voldemort said, and then opened the cell door. "Shall we go then? There is still day light left, and if we go know you will have the time to see all the graves."

Harry glanced up, hesitated, and then stood up, sliding his feet into the shoes he didn't wear in the cell anymore, not since it had been cleaned and tidied and adorned with a nice, soft carpet. He left his robe where it was, and cautiously stepped past Voldemort, and to the empty corridor beyond. Without a word, Voldemort closed the cell door behind them, and then led Harry away and towards an elevator.

They were in the ministry. He had suspected it before, but hadn't been sure, as every time he had been attended to, it had been inside his cell; though where the brain surgery had taken place, he had no idea, he had been too well drugged. But the elevator was unmistakeable, and so was the hall they came to after the short ride; it too was empty and vacant, echoing with the lack of people.

"Did you empty the ministry for my sake?" Harry asked, amused, as they walked towards the fireplaces.

"Just a safety precaution," Voldemort said, and motioned at one of the fireplaces. "The only place you will be able to Floo to from here is the temporary fireplace in Hogwarts Graveyard," he said. "So please do not make any other attempts."

"I wouldn't have bothered at any case," Harry said, and took a pinch of the Floo powder, before stepping into the cool, empty crate.

Hogwarts was as quiet as the ministry had been, when Harry stepped out of the Floo and into the yard. The temporary fireplace had been build into an equally temporary wall, he noticed as he glanced backwards, with some fifty yards between it and the Hogwarts castle. There was no one there, but Harry got instantly the impression that there _had been_ and recently too.

The castle was covered, absolutely _covered_, in scaffolding. It looked a little like someone had thrown sticks all over the castle and somehow they had all fallen into their places, to cover every inch of the actual stone work. There were enormous stacks of stone and wood standing near by, beneath tents pitched up to secure them against elements, and everywhere Harry could see tools scattered, buckets and wheelbarrows and many, many other things.

"We have not quite finished rebuilding here," Voldemort admitted, as he too came through the fireplace. "But the castle should be repaired by the time of autumn term."

"Good," Harry said, though he felt oddly bitter about it, oddly sad. Hogwarts would be rebuild, but how much would it be like it had been? How much of the old castle would remain? How many of the old teachers were now dead? How many new classes would be included?

Shaking his head, he turned his eyes away, and to the graveyard. It too was under some work: a wall was in the process of being build around it, and already several statues and memorial stones had been lifted. It also looked like they intended to build a shrine of some sort on the outer edge, judging by the scaffolding there. "I can't say you don't pay proper respects to your fallen enemies," Harry mused, as he stepped forward and saw that Dumbledore's grave had been moved, white stone and all, into a central place in the graveyard – it would be right in front of the shrine, in the place of honour.

"I am rebuilding a nation – I cannot rebuild it on shame," Voldemort said calmly. "This way, your friends are in the front."

And so they were. The graves were still recent enough so that no green stuff yet grew over them, but they had been attended to – there were candles and flowers, and the gravestones were large and impressive, both adorned with golden epitaphs. Neither of them really meant anything, though, they were just words on stone; Harry was more interested in the names. Ronald Bilius Weasley, Hermione Jean Granger.

"Here," Voldemort said, handing something to Harry – two bunches of flowers, chrysanthemums and irises. Harry glanced at him, and wished he could've gotten the flowers from someone else, anywhere else… but he accepted them.

It didn't feel enough, though, just to adorn the graves with flowers. With a sigh, Harry crouched down before them and stared at both of them for a long time, wishing he could come up with something to say. They'd be no more worthy than words on stone – words spoken to the wind would only be swept away – but Harry knew they'd hear him, somewhere.

And yet, there was little he could say. To apologise would be to demean their own decisions and sacrifices, to say goodbye… they had already done that, the moment Hogwarts had fallen, they had said their goodbyes, all more or less certain they'd die or worse. There was nothing to say about that – nor could he thank them, or congratulate them. They already should be proud for what they had done, the measures taken, as little good as they had been.

In the end, he only laid his hands on the two graves and bowed his head; for a moment he imagined they were there: Ron and Hermione and Harry, together for the last time. He didn't cry, wouldn't in front of Voldemort, but... he knew he'd be leaving something here. Some piece of his heart and soul, perhaps, which he couldn't, _wouldn't_ take with him to the other world.

"Do you wish to see the other graves?" Voldemort asked calmly, once he stood, leaving piece of himself to rest between his friends.

"Yes," Harry said, and his voice didn't waver at all.

x

When the day of the departure finally came, Harry was tired and more than ready to go. To go and leave this world behind would be a little like to die, and he was ready for that, he was waiting for it. There was even a little bit of relief in it, when Voldemort finally came in his best robes and held out the cell door to him.

They didn't instantly go: Harry was first cleaned, shaved, his hair was cut and brushed and he was re-dressed into very fine muggle clothing. Only then, dressed finer than he had since the Yule Ball in the Triwizard Tournament, he was taken out, through the silent ministry and through a fireplace to Gringotts all places, where Goblins and aurors stood as silent guard, with Death Eaters here and there, equally silent as Voldemort led Harry through the bank, the Death Eaters falling about them to work as their honorary guard.

Outside, the Diagon Alley was filled to the brim, with more aurors keeping the crowd back from the space cleared just in front of the bank. There waited Voldemort's inner circle, there waited the portal, build to take Harry away from the world – there also waited the horse, with it's saddle backs filled to the brim, waiting for Harry.

The roar of voices was oddly distant, and everything seemed somehow unreal, as Voldemort walked forward with Harry at his side. There was a speech Harry didn't really listen to, first by the Minister for Magic, then by Voldemort, both explaining how honourable their actions were and how proud they were to give their great enemy a proper send off. Harry was given an Order of Merlin at some point, but he wasn't really paying much attention; he'd remember the words, he knew, his memory wouldn't let them fade, but for now he let them pass him by without notice.

He was instead staring at the crowd, in vain hoping to see someone he knew. Just one Order member, or a Hogwarts student who had fought at the battle, just one… but no, there were none; they inhabited the graves at Hogwarts now, in neat impersonal rows with their grandiose grave markers and words in stone, all meaningless. Harry was about to leave the world, and there was not one friendly, familiar face looking up at him.

He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked up to Voldemort, whose mild smile was all polite triumph and superiority, whose eyes gleamed in the sunlight. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful ceremony, and Harry wished desperately he still had the force of will to hate. He would've hated not Voldemort, but the world that had made him: the world that now celebrated, as it threw him out.

"Godspeed, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord murmured, once he was done pinning the Order of Merlin, First Class – a useless, meaningless trinket – to Harry's shirt front.

"I hope you tear this world apart," Harry answered. "I really do."

Voldemort's smile widened and in unspoken agreement they shook hands, before Harry turned to take the reigns of the horse that now carrying all his worldly possessions. If there had been anyone there to appreciate the amusement, Harry would've laughed. The steed was magnificent: white and large and no doubt expensive, a thoroughbred if Harry had ever seen one. And he, like hero of some children's story, was to ride on it's back through the gate, never to be seen again.

He didn't ride it. Instead he led it and walked to the portal instead: shoulders stiff, back straight, face expressionless. His head held high Harry passed from that world without a word and without shame, almost relieved to leave it all behind him.

xx

This could be crossover with anything, really, but the plans were for Temeraire. Aand then I lost interest. Ah well, I got to play around with language and semicolons, so that's fun.

Also, yay for chapter 50 on TNT!

My apologies for possible grammar errors.


	51. Grace and Gallantry, HP x Temeraire

Warnings; Temeraire x Harry Potter crossover, takes place before Temeraire series.

**Grace and Gallantry**

It was the most inconspicuous, coincidental thing that led them together, and had the wind been just to the south William Laurence would've never met Harry Potter. But as it was, the wind did blow from north, a brisk enough breeze that blew through the more open streets and threatened to strip the casual passer's by of their hats.

Laurence, on his way to the admiralty to receive his formal orders – too excited by half to look where he was going, really – had been bracing against that wind, holding onto his own hat so as not to lose it. And Harry, coming from north side and thus having the wind on his back, had been half blinded by his own generous mass of black, untamed hair, and thus equally unaware of his way.

Their collision wasn't all that significant – shoulder to shoulder, knocking each of them a little askew but not down. Laurence was all apology; "I do beg your pardon, my good sir," to which the other, too busy, just waved a dismissive hand and continued on his way.

A little started by this quick dismissal, Laurence stopped to stare, for a moment taking in the visage of the other man; long dark cloak that the wind tugged on ferociously, and several books and papers tucked beneath his arm, with a bag slung across his shoulder with still more books and papers peeking out from the top - all very nearly stolen by the wind.

Lamenting about the city folk's lack of manners, Laurence turned, intending to continue on his way, and very nearly stumbled over something directly beneath his foot. A dark, leather bound folder, thick with papers. "Sir," he quickly called back, figuring the passed by had been the one to drop it. "Sir, sir, your property!" but by that time the other man was too far away to hear, already lost in the crowd.

Too busy, too eager to meet with the admiral and to get his orders, Laurence hesitated and sighed, tucking the folder beneath his arm and hurried on; thinking to check the folder later and, if there might be some address in it, then return it once he had better time for it.

It was only several hours later, after getting his orders and many many congratulations and well wishes for having been granted his first command – His Majesty's Sloop, _Belize_, a trim vessel of fourteen guns, set to sail to Gibraltar from Dover and from there on to the Atlantic – that he did examine the folder. He did it in the most superficial way possible, trying to avoid too close a look at any of the papers and intending only to find a possible address or calling card: but he couldn't avoid the discovery of its many technical papers, sketches, random notes in several languages… and fifteen Bank of England twenty pound notes.

"Good god," Laurence muttered, eying the crisp, very recently printed notes. Three hundred pounds: a small fortune and certainly more than he had ever personally held in his hands at one time. If he had been keen on returning the folder before, he was even more so now. The sketches and writings, all very technical and no doubt quite important were one thing, most likely a very important thing, but the _money_… its owner had to be anxious for its return.

With that mind, he examined the folder more thoroughly, in hopes of finding some clue as to the owner's whereabouts. There was no card there, and no address – but he did discover a receipt from a pawnshop, a slightly wrinkled and somewhat obscure, with the details of unnamed item being pawned for as much as half a thousand pounds, for heaven's sake. Whoever the person was who owned the folder had to be prodigiously wealthy man.

Feeling the liveliest of curiosity as well as some small amount of trepidation, Laurence set out to the pawnshop, in order to enquire after the gentleman. The pawnshop was very much like most of pawnshops: somewhat shady, somewhat suspicious, with a leery sort of manager who eyed Laurence's blue, white labelled coat and the epaulette on his left shoulder, before glancing at a glass covered case full of watches and spyglasses, no doubt pawned by sailors and naval officers poorly off.

"Sir, I am looking for a man I have some reason to believe has visited this shop," Laurence started, before laying out what little he knew of the man, trying not to be quite as thorough as he might've with the folder at hand, and saying not a single word about the money. He knew enough about business like this as to try and avoid shedding any undue suspicion upon the unfortunate gentleman who had only lost his possession, but just the description and mention of having pawned something worth five hundred pounds was enough to make the proprietor wary.

"Is the gentleman in some trouble, sir?" the manager asked, apprehensively, and Laurence didn't need to be told to know that the man was already wondering whether the item he had exchanged with the gentleman had suspicious origins.

"No, not at all. Only, he dropped something and a receipt to this establishment is the only clue I have to go about as to his whereabouts," Laurence admitted. "A folder of some papers of personal natural, nothing very valuable I'm sure. Designs and such," he added, when there was a gleam of interest in the proprietor's eyes.

"Ah, I see," the man said, eyed him for a moment longer and then said. "Well, sir, I don't know what to say. I can't be just divulging private information of clients at the top of a hat," he said, and left the sentence open, looking at Laurence knowingly, hopefully.

After moment of hesitation, Laurence got few silver coins from his purse and laid them to the counter, which the proprietor was quick enough to snatch up. "A black haired gentleman with a dark over cloak, hauling books, you said? That'd be Mr. Potter then," the manager said and went to get something from a back room, a book which held accounts of past transactions. "I believe he did leave his address… yes, here it is."

After getting the address to the boarding house where the Mr. Potter lodged, Laurence made his exit and then called for a chair to take him to the place, which was very nearly on the other side of London. The trip passed quickly enough, between his curiosity about this Mr. Potter – obviously a wealthy man, and perhaps an inventor of some sort as well judging by some of the papers in the folder – and his own future and the cruise ahead. He had been fortunate, extremely fortunate, in his advancement - only twenty five and already a Master and Commander – and try as he may even now he could not suppress a certain giddiness over the days to come.

He found the boarding house to be a surprisingly nondescript and common, and not at all like one might expect a wealthy gentleman to lodge in. But Laurence didn't let the boarding house's appearances bother him, and stepped inside to enquire after the gentleman.

"Mr. Potter is out, sir," the maid who was covering the counter said, with a forlorn look. "He'd be at a library at this time of the day, but I have no way to know which one, sir – he frequents several. You might wait, if you wish; he should be back by supper," she added, glancing at a tall clock standing in the corner – very nearly six already.

Laurence considered it, and then her; eventually he decided that he did not dare to leave three hundred pounds to the girl's hands without knowing a first thing about her character. As it was, he had no where urgent to be – he'd be lodging at his parents town house, quite alone at this time of the year as the rest of the family were in the countryside, so, for the early awakening he would have in the morning in order to travel to Dover first thing, he kept town hours.

"I will wait, if it does not prove any trouble," Laurence said with a smile, and was promptly pointed to a drawing room, a small but cosy enough place with generous fireplace and quite comfortable couches. It was by no means a boring wait, though he was forced to wait alone; where were a surprising amount of newspapers strewn about the room, everything from the London Times to the Gazette and even some aged papers in French, German and one Spanish one, which were more than enough to keep him entertained.

He was in middle of an article about the raise in taxes and the battles in the continent, when Mr. Potter returned in flurry of paper and books, making his way to the very same drawing room where Laurence sat in wait, and very nearly collapsing onto one of the couches. The man didn't notice the naval officer at first, too busy with several sheets of papers and in relieving himself from the burden of his books and other papers, which all spread in graceless piles at his side, the bag he had been carrying falling over and spilling it's contents onto the pillows.

"Mrs. Dawkins, be a love and bring me some coffee!" the black haired man called without looking up, while Laurence eyed in curiously. It was certainly the same man, the same dark cloak and generous abundance of hair, though in the first encounter Laurence hadn't noticed the pale skin, the round spectacles, or the fact that he wore not a neck cloth, but a woollen scarf around his neck. He was also remarkably young – younger than Laurence himself was, certainly, by at least few years.

"We haven't a pot ready at this time - oh, look at you, papers all about," a woman, no doubt the cook or perhaps even the matron of the house, said as she came in, wiping her hands against her apron. "It is very nearly supper time," she added. "I will have a pot for you afterwards. Will the gentleman be staying?"

"What gentleman?" Potter said, and Laurence suppressed the urge to shift guiltily when the man finally took notice of him – he had been too busy staring to make his introduction or indeed to even let the other man know he was there at all. "Oh," Potter said, blinking behind his glasses. "Hello. And you are?"

"William Laurence, Mr. Potter," the Naval officer said quickly standing up. "I apologise for coming upon you this way – we ran into each other earlier this day, you might recall," he added awkwardly, naming the street as he held out his hand.

"Oh," Potter said again, more a question than a statement, as he stood up and accepted the hand with air of great confusion. "Well, um… I'm sorry if I offended you or something – I was in bit of a hurry, a meeting with a book collector," the younger man started to explain before frowning. "Wait, how do you know my name?" he asked, and turning to Mrs. Dawkins.

"I do apologise – you dropped something," Laurence said, and quickly pulled the folder from inside his coat, holding it out. "I took the liberty of glancing through the papers – I found the receipt of a pawnshop inside, the manager of which pointed me to the direction of this house."

"Oh. So I dropped it – I thought I had left it at Mr. Richard's newspaper collection," Potter said, sounding pleased but not especially emotional; the man didn't even open it to check if all the money was still inside. "Well, thank you," he added, as Laurence stared at him, oddly disappointed by the lack of reaction. "Um. Do you want a reward?" Potter asked, uncertainly, turning to dig through the bag, producing a purse. "It must've been bit of a bother – Mrs. Dawkins. How much would be about right –"

"No, no, I beg of you, no reward," Laurence declined as quickly as he could, while the boarding house's matron looked between them with open curiosity. "I only sought to return the folder because it seemed important – and because… well, there was some money inside and I thought…" he trailed away, uncertain; not wanting to sound like the money had been his sole goal, not now when it was obvious that Potter hadn't felt it's absence in the slightest.

"Well, it would've been a bit annoying if I had lost it, I would've had to go about making my notes again," Potter said, now opening the folder but only glancing through it just barely before closing it again. "Well, I'm grateful, and uh… still should probably repay you somehow," he then said, and looked Laurence with an odd sort of helpless wonder, before glancing at Mrs. Dawkins.

"Perhaps the gentleman would like to stay for supper," the woman suggested, oddly gentle. "We have some nice steaks ready and there would be quite enough for Mr. Laurence."

"Ah, yes," Potter said, now looking relieved. "Yes, that will do. We'll have a dinner in my rooms – and something to drink too. My treat," he said, looking at Laurence.

It was the oddest, clumsiest dinner invitation Laurence had ever gotten, and perhaps not the sincerest; but the hopeful look Potter gave him made it wholly impossible for Laurence to decline. "I should like that very much," he said, as confused as Potter was, and the black haired bespectacled young man positively beamed at him.

"Well then, I will have Sophie set another seat," Mrs. Dawkins said, in tones that brook no nonsense. "Mr. Potter, if you would gather up this hullabaloo into something manageable, I will have it carried upstairs directly."

"What – no, I was just starting to look through it and…" Potter started to complain, stopped, hesitated and looked between Laurence and Mrs. Dawkins, who was as close to glaring as she could get without actually glaring. "Well, I suppose I can do that later," Potter said, and after nodding with satisfaction, Mrs. Dawkins hurried out of the room, leaving Laurence staring in confusion and Potter hurriedly putting his things into something like order.

"Laurence, was it?" Potter asked, while stacking his books and shuffling through the papers. "You're a Navy man?"

"Yes – I've been recently given the command of His Majesty's Sloop, Belize," Laurence couldn't help but say, trying not to swell too badly under the pleasure of the command and the epaulette on his shoulder.

"Ah. Well, congratulations, I suppose," Potter said, glancing at him with a look of mingled interest and odd disregard – not disrespectful but perhaps disinterested. "I guess that is good, for a naval officer?" Potter added, and Laurence realised he had let a frown slip to his face at the man's tone.

"It is… it is very decent berth, yes," Laurence said, taking the man in anew and deciding not to take offence of the odd treatment he was getting – Potter obviously knew nothing of neither naval matters, nor of polite society. No doubt he was some sort of recluse – academic, obviously, and not one who frequently saw people and thus had no idea of how to behave in polite company. Relaxing a bit, Laurence before-hand forgave the man all his slips of tongue and awkwardness of form, and smiled again.

"If I may so bold, sir… as I said, I took the liberty of looking through the folder in search of an address – and I could not help but notice that some of the papers there seemed to be designs of some sort. Are you perhaps an engineer?" he asked, trying to ease the atmosphere.

Potter grimaced at that, but more out of embarrassment than hurt. "More of a reverse archaeologist, in a weird way," the man muttered and shook his head. "No, no, it's just a hobby, nothing as… proper as being an engineer," he said, and tucked some of the papers into his sack, which he slung to his shoulder, the folder tucked beneath his arm.

The maid was still laying down the food when Potter led Laurence to his rooms – which consisted of a smaller drawing room and a bedroom closed off behind a door. The drawing room was scattered with books, with one the window sills and the cabinets in the sides very nearly covered with them, and the maid obviously had had to shift some of the books out of the way to clear the dinner table.

"Hello, Mr. Potter!" the maid greeted them cheerfully, giving a doe-eyed look at the black haired young man as Potter went to deposit his newest books to not quite so filled spot on one of the window wills.

"Evening, Sophie," the man said distractedly, stacking the books without much of an order and then placing the papers and his folder on top of them. He seemed wholly unaware of the look the maid was giving him, full of adoration, and for a moment Laurence felt awkward and then a bit amused, wondering how long the maid had been gazing hopefully towards the obviously distracted and unaware young man.

Long enough to not make more noise about it than a wistful sigh when she was once more ignored it seemed. "Mama said you wanted something to drink," she said, once she was done setting the table. "What would suit you: wine?"

"It's all the same to me," Potter said and glanced at Laurence. "Would you like wine, or something else?

"Wine sounds splendid," Laurence assured, and after another wistful look to Potter's direction, the maid hurried off, returning with the wine bottle and then leaving again and closing the door behind her.

"Sorry about the mess," Potter said, while shedding his cloak and throwing it at a coat hanger standing in the corner in outrageous display of casualness. Beneath it he wore long, straight pantaloons and waistcoat, which forced Laurence to a double take – the outfit was rather outrageously _French_, and Potter wore it without hint of self awareness, not even after he threw the woollen scarf after the cloak, revealing his bare neck and rather open collar. "I don't have many guests."

"Ah, yes. I mean, no, it is quite alright," Laurence said, blinking, and suppressing the urge to touch his own neck and his very neatly pressed neck cloth. He was in his best uniform and recently purchased new coat, that had yet to see the wear and tear of sea and was thus quite brightly blue – and suddenly, he felt out of place.

"The food should be good anyway," Potter said, and waved towards the table. "Take a seat and try some; I'm going pop off for a moment top to wash my hands."

That said, he left the room, leaving Laurence alone and awkward. After a moment of thought, the Navy officer sat down to one of the tables, wondering if he too should've shifted his coat, Potter certainly didn't seem like man who would've taken it as forwardness, but not feeling it his place. Cautious and suddenly nervous, Laurence lifted the coverings to see what had been laid down – very splendid steaks indeed, with potatoes and creamy sauce that smelled sweetly of onions. The amount of greens on his table was a bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one, and quickly he covered the plate again, not wishing for it to get cold – or himself to be tempted to start without his host. He had not eaten for many hours now, and the smell of the food watered his mouth instantly

When Potter returned, he had pushed the loose sleeves of his shirt up to the elbows, bunching them up without any consciousness for their state. Laurence, not sure if he ought to stand or not, hesitated and his eye was drawn to the man's forearms – both of them scarred, both with various burn marks, the left one with a long, evil looking scar that looked very much like it had been made with a knife.

"There," Potter said, and walked to the other seat, falling to sit without ceremony and revealing his own plates eagerly. "I'm starving."

As the other man went about starting, Laurence hesitated, not sure how to proceed. Potter obviously felt no toast was required, no further words, and intended to eat with all the ease he no doubt ate with when he was wholly alone. Laurence, however, was used to Navy forms and couldn't quite grasp this lack of formality - especially not his own clumsy acceptance of it. Show of appreciation was called for.

"I am very grateful to have been invited, even if so suddenly," he said, not finding more elegant words of appreciation. "I hope I have not put you off your schedule in any way," he added, thought he rather doubted he had – indeed, Potter certainly didn't seem put off.

"Ah, never mind that. You found my folder for me, and if you won't take a reward, then this'll have to do," Potter answered, and took his first bite with evident pleasure. Then the man eyed him curiously. "So, you're a navy man, Mr. Laurence – or, should I say Captain Laurence?"

"Well," Laurence said, and hesitated again. He wasn't strictly speaking a captain, not a _post_ captain – and off his ship he was still technically speaking a Lieutenant. "I have not been made post yet," he admitted and then frowned – that had been damnedly forward, to say _yet_. Many never _were_ made post, and to assume that it was only matter of time was horribly rude.

Potter looked at him in incomprehension and blinked behind his round glasses. "Post?" he asked, confused.

"That is to say, I am still a Lieutenant on land," Laurence answered, embarrassed enough with his own slip to not mind explaining. "And master and commander at sea – I am addressed as Captain, of course, but only on board my ship. My vessel is only a sloop of war and not a ship and certainly not a post ship, you see, which would be given to a _post_ captain. So I am junior to any Captain, but senior to Lieutenants."

"Oh, I see," Potter said – though he very obviously did not. There was a gleam of great interest in his eyes though, and he leaned forward eagerly. "So… it's not only captains who command ships?"

"No, no, of course not. Many smaller vessels are commanded by Lieutenants," Laurence said, and after gauging his audience's interest he went about explaining, glad to have this topic of conversation to ease the meal, and to have such an appreciative ear. And, he soon found, a very quick student as well; Potter was quite quick to shed his notions that navy ships were only commanded by captains, and when he confessed that he didn't really know the differences between ships or sloops, and Laurence begun to explain, he quickly begun to understand more.

"The navy is bit more intricate than I thought," the man answered, while reaching over the table and taking the yet unopened wine bottle – he uncorked it with a brusque motion more suited to an able seaman, than a recluse scholar. "Maybe I will make it my next course of study. Wine, Captain?"

"Yes, please. You study quite a lot, I suppose," Laurence said, glancing around the books strewn about the room while Potter poured the wine for both of them.

"Yes," the younger man said with a sigh, and after setting the bottle down he ran a hand through his thick hair, pushing his back from his face and revealing a very faint scar on his forehead; it was instantly covered again, as his hair swung back to it's previous place, falling to his eyes. "Just trying to figure some things out, I suppose. I know so little about this world."

"Very few men do," Laurence said, and looked at the man curiously. "What is your current topic of study, if you don't me asking?"

"Oh, that. Politics, for the most part. And history," Potter admitted. "I'm trying to understand this war, and few some others that have happened along the way."

Laurence blinked, not sure how to take that. The man spoke like he had only realised that there was a war going on. "You have some… difficulties in understanding it?"

"Some. Mostly I'm just uninformed, I suppose," Potter admitted, and then looked at him thoughtfully. "As a naval officer, I suppose you've seen a bit of it."

"Yes, some," Laurence admitted, and leaned back a bit, considering his dinner companion, confused afresh by him. Aside from the odd mode in which Potter spoke and the outrageous, borderline foreign casualness about him, Laurence had the impression that he was in the company of a well learned and highly educated individual and most certainly not a simpleton; however, in the same time Potter had the air of ignorance, ignorance which he obviously was in some straights to rid himself of, but which made him more foreign still.

How an English gentleman, a gentleman of some means at that, had remained so ignorant in these times of newspapers and pamphlets constantly going about, Laurence didn't know.

"Would you like to hear of some of my experiences?" Laurence offered. "I was present at the action at Aboukir Bay, in the August of last year. It is indeed how I earned my promotion now."

"Aboukir bay?" Potter asked, without hint of recognition, and leaned closer with interest. Laurence swallowed the shock of that lack of recognition – to find a man so uninformed… Shaking his head, he took sip of his wine, and then begun to explain the famous – or at least, famous outside that very room – Battle of the Nile.

Potter followed first with interest, as Laurence first explained how the fleet action had came about, of the campaign that had led the two fleets to meet in the climax that had so dramatically ended in British victory. But the further Laurence went on, the more marked Potter's interest grew, and soon Laurence found that he had set aside several of the plates between them and seized upon the bread, breaking it into pieces to play the part of ships of the line, the frigates and that one sloop that had been on British side. While Potter's questions were, in parts, slightly ignorant, and Laurence had to explain the difference between ship of the line and a frigate, all in all the whole discussion was something Laurence had had with fellow navy men – not with civilians.

Laurence, who had been the first lieutenant on board the _HMS Goliath_, had quite bit to tell about the battle – _Goliath_ had after all been the ship that had rounded the French lines on the shoal side, and had been the first to open fire. On top of that, the Vanguard, Nelson's Flagship, had been in view for most of the battle and when Orient had blown up, they had been close enough to feel the heat.

"And there were dragons there?" Potter asked slowly, when Laurence mentioned the Kazilisk, that had been the cause of the explosion.

"Yes. Eight British dragons, and four from the Turks – and let me tell you, we were damned glad the Turks were on our side, when Orient caught fire and exploded," Laurence said vehemently. "The French had fourteen dragons, and so outnumbered us there as well."

When he looked up, there was a gleam of wholly different sort of interest in Potter's eyes, and Laurence wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew it had been put there at the mention of dragons. "Do you have interest in dragons, Mr. Potter?" he asked.

"It's one of my recurring study matters," Potter admitted, glancing at one rather large stack of books, most of which were foreign judging by the look of their spines, the top one being by M. le Comte de la Pérouse. "Have you been in many actions involving dragons?"

"None as big as that, I'm afraid," Laurence admitted. "Though I have been on board ships serving blockade duty, and there come into contact with dragons rather often…"

As he continued explaining and accounting his experiences, they finished their by now cool dinner and Potter poured them more wine with the air of a man completely prepared to avidly listen for the rest of the night. Laurence found himself relaxing further, and at some point he found that he had opened the buttons of his coat and when he went to shift out of it, he wasn't at all surprised when Potter didn't as much as blink. There was something about Potter's keen attention that felt very pleasing; it was the sort of avid interest very few men could display without coming off as awkward and staring, but Potter was the soul of attentiveness and appreciation, as awkward and ignorant as he was. Laurence had never been listened to with such concentration, and it lifted his spirits.

There was something else too: the way Potter hung by his word with hunger of man starved for information, that made Laurence very glad to supply it. It made him wonder yet again about how any modern man, especially one living in London, could be so uninformed; he felt a very tempting desire to ask, at this point he thought potter wouldn't have minded the forwardness of such question. He refrained, however, as there was no proper opening and the topic of discussion already at hand took all their attention.

And so they spoke – Laurence doing most of the speaking, really – of the Navy, brushing on the Aerial Corps and sidling along the Army, before returning back the Navy. The further they went, from the war to common life on board ship, to the dangers of sea life, the weather and it's dangers, the storms and blows and dreadful calms that could still a ship for weeks, for months in the doldrums, the longer the evening grew – and the emptier the bottle between them became. When Potter stood to call for another bottle, Laurence was flushed with the pleasure of their discussion, and of many very happy memories recounted, and without any thought he loosened his neckcloth, after a moment going as far as to strip it nearly entirely.

Potter, if he noticed, made no mention as he sat back down with the new bottle, opening it with maybe little less grace than he had used on the first one, and filling both their glasses to the brim. "I really should not," Laurence said, even as he accepted the glass. "At this rate I will have difficult time, making my way to my lodgings. It is growing so late too."

"Where do you lodge?" Potter asked, taking a sip.

"At my parent's town house; it's quite a way from here, I admit," Laurence admitted, and considered the problem of getting there. On foot it would take him better part of an hour, and take him through some disreputable streets, and at this hour his he wouldn't put any money on his chances of finding a carriage or a chair to take him.

"You can stay here, if you'd like. There is enough space," Potter said, glancing about the room. "And Mrs. Dawkins makes better breakfast than dinner."

"Does she indeed?" Laurence asked, and at this point he was suitably warmed up to his companion that he did not reject the offer out of hand. "I'm afraid I will have to wake up quite early," he then said, apologetically.

"As do I – I have a meeting early on," Potter admitted and smiled at him – the first smile he had given that evening, smile which looked quite boyish on the man's rather pale face. "If after all this wine we manage to sleep at all, I'm sure Mrs. Dawkins can wake us both up early enough."

"Well, then. If you do not mind," Laurence said, hesitant but too much in wind to see anything off with the offer. "I am most obliged do you, my good sir."

"It's nothing," Potter assured, still smiling.

x

How Kindness would've continued, except this has nothing to do with Kindness and is a entirely separate story. Hence, no tattoos on harry's arm, and need to actually study. And then there would be either romance or bromance, that would last for years and years. Probably romance. I dunno. Will have to see if this wants to be continued or not.

My apologies for things and stuff.


	52. Knight of Fayth extended, HP x FFX

Warnings; Harry Potter x Final Fantasy X crossover, Slash, Character's non-death, AU, yadda yadda yadda. Also I wrote this bloody ages ago and haven't done any proper spell check, so beware of that. And Slash. I mean, seriously. Harry's totally gay in this one. Gay, I tell you.

**Knight of Fayth**

Someone or something was singing.

Harry floated in the nothingness of space, listening to the distant song idly. It sounded like a hymn - though he wasn't entirely sure, it had been a long while since he had heard any sort of singing, and hymns had never been high on his list of things to listen. He had never been much on music in any way. The fact that he wasn't even sure how long it had been since he had heard anything made him perk up a little, though.

He had missed sounds - and even if it was a hymn, it was good to just _hear_ something after so long.

Concentrating, he turned towards the sound, listening to it with all he had. There was a voice of a male, deep and resounding. Then there was a boy's voice, high and ringing like silver. A woman's voice in the middle, proud and emotional at the same time. And then there was a group of people, their voices mixed into sweet union, turning the song into a symphony. Unable to help himself, Harry breathed the sound in. The song sounded oddly simplistic in its beauty - he suspect that after a while he'd know the lyrics by heart, even if he would never have any idea what they said, exactly. Still, it was a nice sound.

"It's a world," a voice said behind him, and idly he turned to the new sound. A hooded boy stood there, standing on nothing, his face shadowed. "It has been singing for millennia now. We have been singing. But no one's heard."

"It's nice," Harry said, turning away again. He spent a fleeting moment marvelling that he still could remember how to speak - and that he had a _voice_ left. He wasn't entirely sure he had a body left any more - along the time he had spent, floating in nothingness, he had lost things bit by bit. Memories, body parts. Only the force of his magic had remained, holding him together, holding onto his existence in place where he shouldn't have been able to survive. Wouldn't, if he still had been alive.

"Is it?" the boy asked, shifting forward. Harry could feel his gaze on his back - even if he wasn't sure if he had a back to be stared at. "How do you hear it?"

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. "Maybe I don't."

"But you do," the boy disagreed, and then he was beside Harry. Beneath them there was a glowing world, blue and green and white. It felt warm under Harry, but oddly painful. "You are from a world too. But not this one," the boy noted.

"Yes. My world slept away long time ago," Harry agreed, sighing. Long, long ago. The muggles has gone to a war and the magic had drained itself out trying to hide from it and then Earth had pulled on a blanket of snow. Then it had slumbered off, taking all the life with it. All, but the ghosts that hadn't been able to move on, hadn't wanted to. "It left me, I think - or maybe I slipped away. It's hard to tell."

The boy at his side said nothing for a moment, and they floated in silence, listening to the world below them sing. "It is infected," the boy suddenly said. "By a dream. And that dream keeps alive a monstrosity that keeps us alive, and dreaming - because while it exists we cannot fade, and while we exist we must dream, and while we dream we are used to combat the monstrosity. And for as long as the fighting remains, the monstrosity will be reborn."

Harry smiled - or maybe he emoted it, who knew. "My world never managed to invent the perpetual motion machine," he remembered.

"And we cannot undo ours," the boy said. He was quiet for a moment, while the song intensified below them. "Help," he finally said, quietly. "Help us."

Harry turned, away from the song and towards the boy. "I am dead," he said calmly, but somewhat admonishingly. "I died thousands and thousands of years ago." It was silly to think he could do anything at this point. "And I've been floating since my Earth slept away. I'm nothing but a wraith, if even that."

"In Spira, dead spirits can retake their bodies - if they want to," the ghost whispered. "The magic of Spira, the magic of our souls, remakes life when ever it gets the chance. All you need to do is step upon the soul and you will be alive again."

Harry remained quiet for a moment. It was tempting, by Merlin, it was tempting. He hadn't felt _anything_ for so long. To have a body, hands, feet, to be able to feel and move and see. Just to feel _gravity_ again... But he still remembered how tiresome life had been, in comparison to how easy death was. And he hadn't forgotten the hard lessons of life. "Why me?" he asked. "And what exactly do you need to be saved from? Your dream? The monstrosity?"

"From the spiral of events endlessly repeating. Break the chain," the boy begged. "Give us our rest."

Harry nodded slowly. It didn't really tell him anything - but he could feel the desperation, and the long, long history in the boy's words. A battle after a battle after a battle - a rebirth after rebirth after rebirth. "Why me?" he asked again. "I am nothing."

"You're first not from this world to hear the song," the boy answered. "Many have passed over Spira along the years. None have listened. You did. It means something."

It only meant that he had some version of hearing left, but Harry didn't say that - there was something more going on here. Something else - something special. Not just the song, or the boy who wasn't a boy, taking in space where there was supposed to be no sound. Maybe it wasn't happening at all - maybe it was in Harry's head. It wouldn't be his first strange fantasy along the long, long years of drifting.

But the planet below him was warm and shining and it was pulling him with the promise of gravity and wind and the feel of ground below his feet - not to mention about having those feet to feel it with. It had been so long.

"You will have to guide me," he said, as he begun to fall to the welcoming arms of gravity. "I don't know what to do."

"We'll be with you," the boy's voice promised, fading away. "Thank you."

x

The first thing Harry saw was the sky. It was beautiful, blue seemingly infinite with some wisps of glowing whit drifting slowly past. He had forgotten what atmospheres looked like, when you saw them from inside out rather than the other way. From space, a sky looked so small, a thin little layer wrapped around enormous orbs - but from this angle it looked really never ending.

The wind that was idly tugging onto his hair made him finally realise that he was actually seeing the sky - that _he_ was _seeing_ the _sky_. With a sharp breath, he sat up, slightly surprised he could still remember how to move in a body, and more than slightly shocked that he actually had one again. Body that breathed - which had a torso and hands and, yes, hair too. And eyes and nose.

"Blimey, the wind smells nice!" he gasped, the first words he said on Spira. At that point he didn't care about how monumental that was - because it was true, the wind smelled excellent. Fresh and grassy and a little moist and just _free_. With a shivery sigh Harry closed his eyes and just breathed in. Merlin it had been ages - he had forgotten what it was like, to be able to smell.

"_How_ long have you been dead?" the boy's voice asked from behind him.

Harry didn't open his eyes, only breathed deep again. The feel of his lungs filling was incredible. "I never counted. Tens of thousands of years maybe, who knows," he answered, and then let himself fall to his side on the grass, turning to lay on his belly so that he could nuzzle his nose into the grass, into the earth. In space there was no time - it had been easy not to count. "I like your world," he murmured dreamily, and plucked a blade of grass from the ground with his teeth, wanting to know if it tasted as good as it smelled.

It tasted better.

"I can see that," the boy said. "I'm glad."

"Hmm," Harry answered, and for a moment everything was perfect and he was the most content he had ever been, just smelling and tasting the grass. The boy said nothing for a long while, seemingly content letting him be content, which for Harry worked just fine. He was certain he could spend a small eternity here, embracing the grass, and so as long nothing bothered him, he figured he might as well start that eternity now.

When the reality finally breached through his haze of being just so darned comfortable, it was in form of sharp tug on his hair. More confused than annoyed or shocked, Harry lifted his head from the grass, and looked up to see what or who had bothered him. Instead of seeing a person or anything like that - he couldn't even see the weird hooded kid - he saw a pair of sharp talons just beside him. Following them up, he saw a firm bird's - or maybe dinosaur's - leg. The bright expanse of yellow feathers disproved the dinosaur idea - and then the great bird bowed down again, and tugged on his hair again.

"Oi," Harry said idly, tugging back before waving his arm at the creature. "Get off. Shoo. Whatever you are. Go away."

The bird didn't, only let out a strange "kweh" sound, and then butted its great dark orange beak against his waving hand in friendly nudge - that nearly broke his fingers.

"It's a chocobo," the boy said from behind him as Harry hurriedly drew his hand back, shaking some feeling back to his impact-shocked fingers. "They are common."

Glancing at him, Harry sighed and pushed himself up and to his knees, turning to the bird. It was bigger than an ostrich - about as big as a hippogriff, actually, but fully bird rather than any sort of combination of animals. As he looked up to it, the bird flapped it's stunted wings excitedly and warbled at him - before moving forward and head putting him lightly, warbling again. "You're a friendly fella aren't you?" Harry asked, amused as the bird warbled some more, and then cooed as he scratched the underside of its chin. "Tame, maybe?"

The boy, who seemed to loom somewhere in the corner of his eyes, said nothing for a moment. "There are things to do," he then said, moving forward a little. As he did, Harry could see some strange light flickering about him, and glancing behind him he saw odd balls of light with shimmering tails flickering around the boy. The boy himself, formerly seeming so solid, was now grey and transparent. A spirit, maybe.

"Breaking your chain, yeah," the wizard agreed, reaching out and poking one of the lights buzzing around the kid. It flew right through his finger, making it tingle. "In how much a hurry are we?" he asked, pulling his hand back and rubbing his fingers together. It felt like magic - but nothing like it.

"Much and not at all. Sin isn't going anywhere," the boy answered.

"Sin?" the wizard asked, frowning slightly. "If you want me to fight for your ideals of right and wrong -"

"No, not that sort of sin. Sin is what we call the monstrosity," the boy answered, stepping forward, the strange lights whirling. "Ask about it," he suggested, fading away. "Everyone knows at least a little."

Frowning, Harry eyed the spot the boy had faded away from, before the yellow bird at his side called for his attention again by head butting his shoulder and nearly sending him to the grass on his side. Laughing softly and shaking his head, the wizard turned to the bird, shifting to crouched position and wrapping his arms around the creature's head, digging his fingers into its feathers and scratching.

It smelled nice too.

As the chocobo cooed and warbled with delight, Harry cast a glance around them, wondering where they were and where he could ask about Sin. All he could see was grassy hills all around him and, little to the left, some other yellow birds who were idly clawing at the ground or eating the grass. They seemed not to even notice him - which indicated that they were used to humans.

"Okay," Harry murmured, standing up with his arm casually across the chocobo's neck, still scratching. "Let's see then…"

He glanced down to himself, taking in his new body in full detail for the first time. It looked… about right. He couldn't remember all the details of himself, but the shortness of his form was somewhat familiar. He was wearing a long black jacket that reminded him a bit of his old robes, and rest of his clothes were more or less familiar too. As was his hair, messy and black as it was.

He could work with it, the wizard decided. It looked about functional enough and there were worse things. Like, not having a body. "Okay," he nodded and looked at the chocobo again. "Now, how about we try and see if we can find your owner."

Walking, he realised after couple of steps, was incredible too. As was the feel of wind in his hair, and the sound of it moving through the grass, the kwehs and warks the chocobo let out. Gravity too - having it hold him forcibly to the ground, instead of it having to be a conscious choice on his part. Flying as a ghost had always been fun - but the feel of strain on his knees and ankles as he took his steps… it was an odd thing to miss, but he had.

Just for that, he decided, Spira was worth saving.

x

It took him nearly an hour to find a trail and a couple of more to finally see some sort of settlement in the distance. Harry didn't mind it at all. Walking, hearing, smelling… he could've easily taken a couple of days walking and not felt the slightest bit bored. On top of that, the chocobo had apparently decided to follow him because it had barely left his side the entire way, only running a little ahead at times and then returning to head butt him or demand a scratch before running ahead again. Its excited warbling kept him entertained when ever the wind died down.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at, when the settlement came into view from behind a hill. It looked like an odd tent, except not. Or maybe a pavilion or some sort of leisure stopping point, but again, not really. In the end he stopped guessing and just made his way over, the chocobo following him a little more cautiously as they came to the circled area around the thing. Only there sights of the advertisements set up here and there made him figure out that the place wasn't a settlement - but a shop.

"Hi there!" the salesperson greeted him. The counter was right in the front of the tent-building thing, and she was waving over it at him in fairly friendly manner. "Are you part of Captain Adrak's group?"

Harry smiled. "Nope," he answered with equal amount of cheerfulness. What an awesome thing to be, cheerful. Ghosts rarely got to feel that. "Who's Captain Adrak?"

"But you have a chocobo… ah, never mind. Captain Adrak's people have been here all the time in the last week or so, I've gotten used to seeing them come around with their mounts, sorry about that," the salesperson said, smiling at him. "He's the Commander of the Bevelle's Knights - they've been training here for the week or so."

"And they're known to travel with chocobos?" Harry asked, giving the bird that had been following him a look. Yeah, he could see it - the bird was certainly big enough and fast enough and probably strong enough to be used as a mount. "Neat," he said, and turned back to the woman. "So. I'm a bit lost," he said. "Can you tell me where I am, exactly?"

He expected ridicule or incredulity, but the woman only chuckled. "People always get lost here - the Calm Lands look about the same everywhere," she said, reaching below the counter and bringing out the map. "Here," she said, beckoning him closer. There was a map of what looked like wide plains, with mountains at all side. "We're here," she pointed at the left side of the map. "The way up to Mt Gagazet is here - and here you can go to the Macalania woods and through them to Bevelle - the Macalania temple on other hand is here…"

Harry nodded here and there, while eying the map. "What's the scale on this thing?" he asked, and she explained soon that to reach either the Mt. Gagazet road or the Macalania forest would take him probably days on foot "Right," he nodded, leaning to the counter with his elbows. He had no way to know which way to go, or if he was even supposed to go to either direction, but it was probably important information, so he pressed it all to his memory.

"So, you need anything else, except for directions?" the woman asked hopefully. "I have great stock here - maps, compasses, potions, gear, weapons. Anything you need to cross the Calm Lands, I have it right here. I'm especially well stocked on armour at the moment - with the Knights here, I've put in a little extra."

"I'm sure you have," Harry smiled. "Sorry, you won't make much a bargain with me. I'm penniless," he admitted sheepishly.

"Oh, pity," she sighed, and wrapped the map away.

"You could help me with something, though, unless you're terribly busy," Harry added, glancing around. Aside from him, her and the chocobo who was munching on some longer grass growing on the side of the shop-tent, there wasn't a soul anywhere near to be seen. "You could tell me everything you know about Sin."

"Sin?" the woman asked, and then frowned. "You don't know."

"Of course I know," Harry answered smoothly. "But you see, I'm collecting this chronicle about what people know about Sin. Old stories, what they've heard from their parents, stuff like that."

"Oh, you're a writer," she nodded knowingly, as if everything suddenly made sense. "Will you put my name into the book?"

"If you want me to," Harry nodded smoothly.

"Okay, sweet. My name is Dnana - make sure to remember that," the woman grinned, leaning over the counter. "So, what do you want to know?"

"Anything. Everything," Harry said, and then snapped his fingers as if getting an idea. "I know. Pretend that I've never heard of Sin in my life - that I'm from some weird place where Sin's never been. Or that I'm alien from another planet. Anything. Just, tell me the whole thing the way you see it as if I know nothing about anything."

Dnana giggled softly. "Alright," she said, before tapping her chin with two fingers. "Okay, where to begin. I can't remember how old I was when I first heard of Sin. I think my mom told me stories about it when I was really little, you know, long, long before I can remember - because I can't remember never not knowing about him, you know?"

"Yeah. Go on," Harry nodded.

"Shouldn't you be writing this down?"

"I've got good memory - trust me, I'll remember every word you say perfectly," Harry promised.

"Okay then," she said a bit suspiciously, before getting a thoughtful look about her face. "The first time saw Sin, I was about six years old. It was a picture, you know - someone had taken it just before Sin attacked Kilika. Well, one of the many times Sin attacked Kilika. I couldn't really get any feel to it back then - because really, Sin is so big that when you see only part of it, it looks like great blob, you know?"

"How big, would you say?" Harry asked thoughtfully. Monstrous really meant a great big whopping monster, then?

"I don't know. I don't think anyone's ever measured Sin - but I think, if Sin jumped on Luca, you couldn't see the town from beneath it. It's so big," Dnana said with a thoughtful nod. "Maybe a bit of the edges, but not much more. I haven't really given it much a thought really, because it's Sin, you know. It's just… so big"

Harry nodded. "What was the first thing you've ever heard of Sin doing?"

"The attack on Kilika," the woman nodded.

"Pretend I don't know what Kilika is, and explain it to me, okay?" Harry asked, giving her a charming smile. "Alien from another world here, right?"

"Right," she nodded, grinning. "Okay, so, Kilika. It's this small island, far to south - below Luca and above Besaid. There's a temple there, I think Summoners get Ifrit there, but I'm not sure. Anyway, Kilika has these rain forests, yeah? And they're full of fiends, like, Marlboros and stuff - so people can't lie there, but they can't leave the island either, because the temple is here and you can't exactly move a temple. So, the Kilika Village is on the shore - little past the shore, actually, it's like on stilts above the water. Never been there, but I hear it's beautiful.

"Anyway," she continued. "Sin mostly hangs around water - and Kilika is, well, kind of vulnerable the way it is. It's just wood, on stilts, above water. So, when ever Sin as much as passes the place by, splash, crack, boom!" Dnana slapped her hands together. "Gone. But Kilika island has a temple so it has to have a harbour too, so they rebuild it again and again after Sin destroys it, because they don't have much a choice. Kilika's village been wiped out like eight times in the time I've been alive."

"Ouch," Harry murmured. "You'd think that give the people enough incentive to brace the jungles."

"You'd think, but I guess the fiends are too strong. They're like between rock and hard place," Dnana shrugged sadly. "Anyway. The first thing I remember Sin doing in my life is that. I think there was like a spawn attack there that time - usually the Kilika village is taken out by tidal waves and stuff, but I remember it being spawns that time."

"Alien from another world, remember?" Harry asked, raising eyebrows. "Spawns."

"Ah, yeah, sorry. Spawns are like these things that grow out of Sin. Where ever he goes, the spawns appear. I think I heard a priest or someone once say that Sin sheds them like dandruff of something - they just fall off Sin. And then they attack anything near by that as much as moves," Dnana said, and shuddered. "I've seen a couple close by. They're like your average fiends - except creepy."

"Okay," Harry nodded slowly. So, aside from Sin and spawns and whatnot, there were also _average fiends_? What an interesting world. "And attacks on places like Kilika, they happen often?"

"Once a month you hear that sin's attacked this ship or this village or this settlement," Dnana shrugged her shoulders. "He's seen like several times a week here and there, and it creeps people out every time. I was born in Bevelle you know - and every time anyone as much whispered that Sin was seen close by, the entire town went into panic. You never know when and where Sin attack - if he's seen close by, it's never a good sign."

"And did it? Attack Bevelle, that is?" Harry asked.

"Couple of times. I was about… fifteen, I think. Yeah, I was fifteen, when Sin attacked Bevelle - it was scary as hell, you know. It was just hanging there, in the air, and I really thought it would just drop down and crush everything. But the Bevelle Wyrm and the Warrior Monks and the Chocobo Knights, I think they drove it away."

So, the Sin could fly - and it could be driven away? Harry nodded slowly. "Bevelle Wyrm?" he asked.

"Yeah, Evrae. It guards the city," Dnana answered. "I've no idea where it's come from. Some thing it's an Aeon, but who knows. It's been protecting Bevelle since for ever - my grandfather told me stories about it and everything."

"Okay," the wizard nodded. Wyrms that guarded the cities from Sin. "So. Where do you think Sin comes from?"

Dnana was quiet for a moment before frowning. "The priest at my school said that Sin came to be because of the sacrilegious actions of people - because long ago, we made machina and did horrible things with them. My granddad, though, he said that no one knows. He was a crusader when he was a young - he was part of the Siege of Luca Bay, so he must've known what he was talking about. Sin's just always been there. Maybe it's because of machina and stuff, or maybe it's there just… because it is there. I'm no Summoner, so, what do I know, right?" she asked, laughing softly, mirthlessly.

"Summoner?" Harry asked, and as she gave him another strange look, he smiled. "Alien from another world, me," he said, pointing at himself.

"Right, right. Sorry. Uhm. Summoners, they're the ones who defeat Sin. They go to these pilgrimages, they get all the Aeons - that is, the creatures they summon, you know. And then they go to Zanarkand - they go through here you know - and then… then they defeat Sin. Well some do. It was almost ten years since it happened the last time."

The woman sighed. "I was just about seventeen, when High Summoner Braska defeated Sin," Dnana said, sounding a little wistful. "I remember how it was, afterwards. The parties in Bevelle, they lasted for a week - everyone was so happy. And for a complete year after that, it was quiet. Not a single word about Sin, not a whisper, no attack. You could go anywhere and just know that there would be nothing to worry about. The best year of my life, the Calm."

Harry eyed her quietly. "And then Sin came back?" he asked.

"It always does," Dnana nodded sadly. "My granddad said that when he was young, there was a Calm that lasted almost three years. Three years, can you believe it? It's been nine years since the last Calm - and that only lasted for one year. It's unfair."

"I really can't," the wizard said quietly. "If the High Summoners can defeat Sin - why don't they do it right after the Calm ends?"

The woman gave him a strange looks. "You only become a High Summoner if you defeat Sin. And I don't think I've ever heard of High Summoner, who survived after defeating Sin."

"…oh," the wizard murmured looking away. Well that explained a few things. Summoners went to pilgrimages to defeat Sin - and died, if they actually managed it. Year or three later, Sin returned and another Summoner went through the same ordeal, and died at the end of it. Rinse and repeat. But how? How could you defeat something - only to have it return after year or so? What was Sin - did it have a horcrux somewhere, or something?

"You say that Summoners go through here to, um, where?"

"Zanarkand. All Summoners go there from here and through Mt. Gagazet." Dnana nodded, pointing towards north - where, Harry supposed, the entrance to Mt Gagazet was. "That's where the Final Aeon is, I hear, in the ruins of Zanarkand. Except lot of them don't. They come here and then they get cold feet, and then they go home. I've seen something like dozen Summoners here - none of them even went to Mt Gagazet, not to mention about Zanarkand."

Harry nodded slowly, wondering if Zanarkand was where he was supposed to go. "How does summoning work?" he asked thoughtfully.

Dnana shrugged. "The Summoners pray to the Fayth in the temples. That's about all I know. Well, they go through some trials and stuff," she said and shook her head. "I don't really know."

Praying. Well, that would be out, Harry mused. He had never prayed to anything, and whatever the _fayth_ were, he wasn't going to pray to them either. "Aside from the Summoners, are there anything else - anyone else - that could possibly try and defeat it?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Well, there's the Crusaders - but they've been crusading to defeat Sin for as long as I can remember, and they never had. They can sometimes hold it at bay - like with Bevelle and stuff - but yeah, that's about it. The warrior monks maybe… nah, they just protect Bevelle and the temples I think, and that's it. There's the Chocobo Knights too, but they're pretty much the same as Crusades, except they ride chocobos. They're pretty new, though, so who knows. Maybe they'll make a difference," Dnana said thoughtfully. "They've been training like mad here for the last days, so, maybe they've got some idea about what to do…"

Harry nodded. "Anything else?"

"Well, some say the Al Bhed try too, with forbidden machina and all, but I try not to think too deeply into that," she admitted. "My boss is an Al Bhed."

Harry considered asking who or what the Al Bhed were, but decided against it because of the look of unease on the woman's face. "Okay, thanks. I think I got what I needed," he said, nodding. "So, those knights training here, under that Captain Agros, was it? They're Chocobo Knights?"

"Captain _Adrak_, and yeah," Dnana nodded, looking relieved that he had changed the subject.

Since summoning was out and everything else seemed a bit long-shot - and because of the convenience of being at the same place at the same time… it wouldn't hurt to try. "You wouldn't happen to know where, exactly, they're training in here?" he asked, while looking at the chocobo that had taken a liking to him, wondering how well it would take to a saddle.

x

After getting directions and wishes for good luck from Dnana, Harry and the chocobo that was still following set out again, making their way across the grassy pains of Calm Lands. While walking the wizard thought through all he had heard, wondering. So many things to remember and investigate. Sin itself was getting a better shape in his head, but the rest of it…. Monks, knights, crusaders, Summoners, wyrms, Al Bhed what ever they were and so forth.

He couldn't wait to learn more.

"Really interesting world," he murmured to himself, stretching his arms and then throwing one of them around the chocobo's neck, as it came close enough to push at his shoulder compassionately again. "And you too. You're interesting too. Do you belong to the Chocobo Knights, perhaps? Or are you really just a wild thing that took a liking to me? Hm?" he asked, but as he scratched the underside of the bird's beak, it only warbled happily and didn't answer.

After hour or so walking, things other than Sin and Spira and how good everything smelled started to finally come to the Wizard. As he watched how the chocobo clawed some sort of root from the ground and ate it happily, he had to wonder about why he wasn't getting hungry at all. It had been… four, five hours since he had gotten a body, but he wasn't even feeling slightest bit like he ought to eat something.

"Kid? Boy? Ghostly fella with sprinkles on top, you here anywhere?" he asked, glancing around himself until he caught the shadowy shape of the boy in the corner of his eye. "Sorry to bother you whatever you were doing, but this body - do I need to feed it?"

"Your physical form is the construction of your spirit and memories, given shape by the powers of this world," the boy answered. "You cannot die because you aren't alive."

"So, that's a no then," Harry murmured. If he couldn't starve to death it made sense his body wouldn't need any food. "Won't it be a bit suspicious if I never need to eat? Do I need to sleep?" he wondered.

"You don't need to, but you can," the boy said. "Eat too, only you will get nothing from it."

"Okay. Neat," the wizard nodded slowly. Being dead in this place was a much sweeter deal than being dead back on Earth - there the best he had been able to do was float around and occasionally scare people. Here he got all the perks of being human without the weaknesses. "How many dead people are there here? Mean, do they all get this?" he asked, pointing at himself. If everyone could get it, then the place ought to be full of walking dead."

"Some. More than necessary, perhaps. Not all can, though, most get corrupt," the boy answered. "And a Summoner has a power to Send the dead onwards, and to the Farplane."

"That your version of Afterlife?" Harry mused. "And Sending is your version of exorcism. Okay. How does that work - and can people tell that I'm dead? Because if some Summoner will just know, that will be a bit awkward."

"If you take steps, they will not know - and a Sending is a prayer that takes time, if you are fast enough you can avoid it," the ghost boy answered. He hesitated for a moment. "We, that is… the Fayth know you are here. We can… take steps to protect you from such things."

"If I'm to save you lot, I'd suggest you get to it. Much good I will do to you all if someone just ups and prays me out of this world," Harry answered before frowning. "You're the Fayth?" he asked. "The Fayth Summoners pray to get their Aeons or whatever? How does _that_ work?"

The boy explained. The way Harry figured it was that the Aeons were creatures of spirit magic, that people's souls gave form to. The souls were attached to crystals or whatever, and when a Summoner took enough time to ask for it, the soul of the Aeon, or the Fayth, granted him or her the ability to call the Aeon - by linking that Summoner to itself and to the Aeon, somehow.

So, basically, the temples housed the horcruxes of aeons and the power of Spira could go as far as to multiply the body for that horxcux if it was called right? No, that probably wasn't it, but trying to fit it into the terms of Earth's magic made it simpler for Harry. It had been so long, but it still made better sense to Harry than the other stuff.

"And there's how many of the Aeons?"

"Eight, and the Final Summoning, which works differently," the boy explained. "Most Summoners only find half of them."

"Okay," Harry nodded before giving the boy a look. "I hope you don't expect me to get them all - or any of them - because me and praying, we've never gotten along. Especially since I died."

The boy looked a bit taken aback for a moment, before he let out a small chuckle. "I don't know," he admitted. "We were ready to give the Aeons to you, but if you don't want them… what way do you think you can help us?"

"I don't know," Harry shrugged and grinned. "We'll see, shall we?"

He found the camp of the Chocobo Knights shortly before the sun started setting and the air started to get a hint of coolness to it. He nearly missed the entire camp as he enjoyed the new smell in the wind, and in the end only ended up not missing it thanks to the chocobo, who started kwehing and warbling - to which several others chocobos warbled and kwehed back in greeting.

The camp was pretty simple, Harry noted as he approached. There were some tents and fences made from wooden poles that were connected by ropes. The chocobos were penned up in the rope fences, while some armoured people practiced with swords and lances while others tended to some chocobos on the side. One of them Harry noted with fascination, was fitting some sort of armour onto one of the chocobos. It looked fairly impressive.

As he walked closer and the people noticed him, he was greeted by waves and calls before couple of people approached him, eying him and the chocobo that was nuzzling into his shoulder anxiously, from between looking and warbling at the other chocobos. "Are you here to join?" a dark haired man with no-nonsense type of face asked, his chest plate impressively full of scratches.

Harry nodded. "Sure," he said, and grinned. He hadn't thought it would be so easy. "Where can I sign up?"

It turned out to be a bit easier - there was no signing up. Apparently aside from being there to train, the Knights had also posted several recruitment posters all over the place in hopes of getting new recruits. He was among the few that had turned up.

"People tend to rather go to the Crusaders - think they are bigger and better organised, not to mention under the command of the church," Captain Adrak explained, after hearing that Harry had heard of them from the merchant of the Calm Lands. "It is true, of course, but we Chocobo Knights are much more flexible, and we obviously travel lighter and faster. Now, what kind of experience do you have?"

Harry eyed field, where some senior knights were instructing their newest recruits on how to hold lances. "Some, sir. I've ridden feathery creatures before and I've held a sword. Never done both at the same time, though - or either in excessive amounts," he said thoughtfully. "I've seen battles though."

"Excellent," Adrak clapped his heavily gloved hands together before standing up and looking over at one of the tents, where slightly elder man was scowling at a badly chipped sword. "Let's see how you do with a sword then. Oi, Tar, you think we got training armour that will fit - what was your name again?"

"It's Harry, sir," the wizard answered, standing up as well.

"Hm. Unusual name. Okay, armour for Harry here - and get me some training swords!"

While the chocobo that had been following him made friends with the other chocobos, Harry was lead to an open area near the tents, where the slightly elder man named Tar handed him and Adrak a pair of wooden training swords. Curiously Harry waved his around, trying to get a feel to it. It was no sword of Gryffindor, definitely not - it was wood, for one, but also the blade was wider and longer, and the handle was long enough for both hands. Yet he was fairly certain it wasn't a two handed sword.

"We usually use lances, rather than swords - they are simply more efficient from the back of a chocobo to use," Adrak said, while whirling his sword almost absently in his grip. "But there will of course be times when we cannot fight whilst mounted, and in those times a lance might be too long."

"Right, right," Harry nodded. "Now what, sir?"

A whole lot of training, it turned out. Adrak spent exactly three minutes testing Harry with the sword before dubbing him a complete novice, and putting him with the other novices. Harry didn't mind - because he was learning how to _sword fight_, and how awesome was that? Not to mention about the fact that he was moving and fighting and learning and feeling it all.

The high of having a body to experience the stuff with still hadn't gone away and Harry was starting to think it was never going to. He was pretty okay with that.

After about hour or so of sword training, of swinging again and again and again at this angle and that angle, of learning how to grip a sword right and how to brace for the impact of swords meeting and what not, their trainer called the training over for the day. As the other novices sighed with relieve and dropped their swords, eagerly making their way to a near by table where someone had laid out some sandwiches and what not, Harry waved his sword some more. He wasn't hungry at all - and seriously, _sword fighting_.

"Harry. That chocobo of yours?" Adrak asked, as he finally left the sword in favour of trying to hold onto the pretence of being living breathing human. "She's tame, isn't she?"

Frowning, Harry glanced over to where some of the knights were trying to get a saddle onto the bird that had following him. The bird was ducking out of the way and flapping its wings threateningly at them, even while warbling excitedly like it was just a game. To it, it probably was. "I don't know, sir. It just started following me earlier today. She?" Harry asked.

"Yes, it's a female," Adrak nodded before giving him a considering look. "A wild chocobo started following you? What did you do - lure her with greens?"

"No I didn't, sir, I just…" Harry trailed away, not entirely sure how to explain. "It just sort of happened."

"Ah, well. Some of the chocobos of these plains are like that. They all used to be tame at one point in history - the chocobos here are descendants of ones that were left behind or which escaped - or laid eggs onto the plains - and which then became feral," Adrak murmured thoughtfully. "Some of them still grow easily fond of humans, if you're lucky enough to encounter one like that. I suppose we will have to see if she can be trained then," he mused and then glanced at Harry. "Do you think you could put a saddle on her?"

"I could try, sir, but no promises," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Right now it seems she just thinks it's a game."

"It's definitely better than it would be if she'd thought it was an attack," Adrak said, clapping his shoulder heavily. "It'll have to wait until tomorrow though. It's getting late. Now, how about you get something to eat and we'll see if we can fit you in the tents?"

"Sounds like a plan, Captain," Harry agreed.

He ended up not sleeping a wink that night and spent the entire night just lying in the bedroll assigned to him, staring at the roof of the tent while around him the other novices snored a way. It wasn't a bad experience at all - the sounds of people breathing and how the chocobos moved around in the pen, clawing the ground… there were worse things to listen.

Like absolute _nothing_. That had gotten tiresome after few days - and he seriously didn't want to know how long he had been listening to it. Longer than any sane person had any business listening to nothing.

Sighing contently, Harry closed his eyes. He loved Spira. Such a hospitable place.

x

It took him a couple of days to get hang of the sword in the way that somewhat satisfied his trainer. That was about the time it also took to get the chocobo that had been following him to settle down enough to accept a saddle. Harry was pretty certain that once the chocobo had been saddled, it would be safe to try and mount her, but the Knights seemed to disagree, so he didn't.

"Even if she's half tame already, she's still a wild bird and might take badly to having a man on her back. And chocobo's kick can break a man's spine easy enough. Let her get used to the saddle first, and see how we ride the other birds," the man mostly in charge of the chocobos and their gear, Mertyn, said. "Then we'll see how she'll handle it."

"Sure, sir, if you say so. I'm in no rush," Harry answered. "It's just that I've never ridden a chocobo, specifically. Maybe I should try it out before I try her - it'll probably go better if one of us has an idea what they're doing."

The man laughed and clapped his shoulder before taking him to his own chocobo, Berka, who was among the oldest and most docile chocobos in the regiment. With Meryn's guidance, Harry fitted his new combat boot into the stirrup, before taking hold of the saddle and lifting himself up and astride on the bird's back. It was surprisingly easy, though considering that his past experiences with winged mounts were mostly hippogriff and thestrals and he had never as much as seen a saddle before, maybe that was it.

"Okay, now. Fit your legs along the shape of his wings, maybe a little bit underneath them," Mertyn directed. "And squeeze your calves in, but not too much, don't dig your heels into his sides, but squeeze well enough to hold yourself steady. We need tend to need both our hands to hold lances or swords and our shields, so we don't use reigns in the battle and the way you guide your bird is mostly by the centre of your weight. If you shift forward, the chocobo will move forward, if you lean left, the chocobo will also. So you need to hold a good grip with your legs. Got it?"

"Yes, sir, got it," Harry agreed, and then tried. He had always had a certain bond with winged creatures - Hedwig, Fawkes, Buckbeak, the thestrals of Hogwarts, not to mention about all the other creatures that had came afterwards. But, after half an hour on chocobo's back, he decided that the yellow birds were his new favourites. The way the bird followed his guidance reminded him a bit of a way a person guided a broom - and though it wasn't exactly flying, it was so much better than the hang-on-and-hope-you-don't-fall he had used to hippogriffs and thestrals.

"Good job, Harry, good job," Mertyn said, after he had gotten the hang of the steering. "You're taking to this like chocobo to a green. Now, let's try some more difficult manoeuvres. Can I get a shield and practice lance in here?" he called to Tar, who grumbled and left the blade he had been tending to get the requested items.

It turned out that learning to ride a chocobo was nothing. Learning to ride one like a Chocobno Knight would probably take years. It was so amazing - like medieval knights, except on birds and with lighter equipment, and slightly less oriented towards raw charging and more to quick manoeuvring. A horse would've never moved as easily or lightly as a chocobo, after all - and man could the birds jump. They hop over each other and each bird was something like seven feet tall. At the very least!

"It's a start," Mertyn pronounced after Harry wobbled down from Berka's back, his knees a bit shaky and his heart pumping with adrenaline. He felt so alive that for a moment he swore he had forgotten that he wasn't - he was even perspiring and everything! And his bum was probably on blisters! He could get _blisters_!

"How long did it take for you to learn that weird zigzag turn, sir?" Harry asked while rubbing his backside awkwardly. When Mertyn had demanded him to try the manoeuvre meant to be used to weave through a crowd, Berka had nearly knocked him off the saddle four times.

"I invented it. Most of the manoeuvres of the Bevelle Chocobo Knighs are my inventions," Mertyn said grinning. "It took a some doing to perfect it, though, and it tends to take some months before novices master it. I'm shocked you stayed on saddle, people usually fall the first time."

"That sounds vaguely familiar," Harry murmured, shaking his head. But if most of them were invented by Mertyn… "How old are the Bevelle Chocobo Knights anyway, sir?"

"Stop calling me sir. I got a name. And they're not that old, less than ten years I think. The Djose Chocobo Knights are older, almost fifteen years or so, but in comparison to the crusaders were still just ducklings," the physically elder man answered, folding his arms. "We started just around the time when the last calm was, wasn't it? Sin used to hang around the Calm Lands a lot before that, so no one here dared to try and tame chocobos - I'm from Mi'ihen road myself, born and bred. That's where I learned to handle the birds."

"Right," Harry nodded and stretched his arms. They were both still shaky after holding the heavy shield and lance for so long. He was _aching_ - it was brilliant. "I don't think me and lances agree much. Do you think I could use a spear instead sir? I mean, Mertyn."

"Some do, but I think lances are better for ramming - the grip is designed for it, after all," the man answered thoughtfully. "I think Tar's working on a sort of split though. You could ask him. We have some other long weapons too, you can have a look."

Harry did. There were a lot of weapons from lances to spears to swords of several different length - one of them being what looked like seven-foot-katana or something. There were also some things which looked like pitchforks and such, but the one Harry took immediate liking to was a weapon with a spear-like long shaft, and then what looked like a sabre for a blade.

"A naginata," Tar grunted, after taking the weapon off the rack. "Not bad choice for your build - you're on the shorter side, not too heavy either. Let me adjust the shaft for you and then you can have a go at it."

Adjusting the shaft apparently meant cutting a great part off it, it turned out. Tar measured it very carefully though, leaving the shaft exactly as long as Harry was tall, with the sabre-like blade adding good thirteen inches of extra. "Alright, let's see how you handle it, then," the weapon smith said.

It could've gone better, but the wood of the shaft felt better than the leather of a sword grip or the metal of a lance. Harry wasn't entirely sure, but the thing might've even conducted a magic a bit - it felt warm in his hand, sparkling. "Can you… do anything special with this, sir?" he asked carefully, after spending a moment swinging the thing around.

"All my weapons work as focuses, well enough," Tar said, glaring at him.

"…focuses?"

"Yes, damn it, they all conduct magic just as well as any crusader weapon," Tar snapped. "Do you think that I'd make sub-bar weapons, huh?"

"No, no, not at all," Harry quickly assured, holding his hands up in sign of peace. He heard a chuckle coming from behind him, and glanced over his shoulder to see their Captain.

"You sound lively. Are you interested in trying some magic, Harry?" Adrak asked, walking closer. He was holding a shield that seemed to have a broken strap. "We have some knights who used to be warrior monks or were considering being in the crusaders, so we make sure that all black and white mages can use their skills without any trouble. The training weapons are the only ones who aren't focuses - but that's because they're only meant to be used to learn the forms of fighting, rather than to fight."

Harry nodded slowly. So, focus was like a wand, except all weapons were like that. And apparently magic users were common. White mages and black mages, huh? Interesting. He had to wonder which one he was. "Mind if I try?" he asked, waving the naginata experimentally. It would be brilliant if he could use old Earth magic.

"Go ahead, if you think you can," Tar said, folding his arms.

"Don't mind him, he's always like this. You can try over there - or if you want practice on a target, we can set something up," Adrak said, sizing Harry up. "It would be great to have an experienced magic user in the Knights. Especially a white mage."

"Let me have a go at first, sir, we'll see how I do and what I am afterwards," Harry answered, and walked to the area the Captain had pointed out. After few test swings and trying to get feel of the thing, he took the thing into both hands. Now how were these focuses used here? Was he supposed to point it like a wand, or thrust it, or swing it or… Shaking his head and deciding not to over think it, Harry pointed the weapon forward, and at the grass before him.

The silent cutting hex came out better than he thought. A gauge appeared into the ground, not very long or deep, but definitely there. Blinking and then grinning, Harry pulled the naginata back and then swung it forward, this time sending jet of water across the high grass. The water attack came out at surprising speed and sharpness - it actually cut some of the grass down before breaking into a loose wave.

"It seems to be working just fine," he mused, spinning the naginata and then holding it at his side. It was no wand though - the spells were somehow sharper than he remembered them to be, but not as powerful and that deep companionship he had always felt with his wand was completely missing. Maybe because the naginata had been given to him, and he hadn't won it.

"So, you're a black mage then," Adrak said, approaching him. "How much experience do you have with magic? What kind of magic can you do?"

"This and that, sir. My shield charms are better than my other spells, but I do well enough with attack magic too," Harry answered thoughtfully. So, attack spells made him a black mage. Alright. So as long as being a black mage didn't get him immediately branded as evil, he was fine with that. "Do the knights have any white mages?" he asked, wondering about that. What was white magic, if black magic was combat magic?

"Tar, if you can believe, can cast some - he can even cast a Curaga in a bind. But that's about it. If the Mi'ihen Knights or Djose Knights have healers, I don't know," the Captain sighed and thoughtfully ran his hand through his short cropped hair. "How much magic can you cast in one go - what's your limit? And do you think you could learn other magic, say, Haste? Or do you know it already? And do you know if you're just black magic oriented, or could you learn some white magic, maybe Esuna? It would be useful to have at least one person who knows that one."

"I don't know," Harry answered slowly. So, white magic was healing magic. He could get behind that type of categorising, though he had to wonder where stuff like levitation and banishment charms and such went, though, house hold charms and such. Or transfiguration and things like that. And what was Haste or Esuna? Well, Haste could mean only so many things, but… "How do you learn them? It's been a while since I learned the stuff I know now, so…"

"Talk to Tar, he might be able to help. If he feels like it," the Captain said. "If you could do it sooner rather than later, it would be better. If there's any chance you might be able to learn Esuna…"

"We're in a hurry?" Harry asked, glancing at the Captain.

"We are training for a reason," Adrak said, and gave him a look. "I suppose the others haven't told you about it yet? There's plans for a joint mission to fight sin in the works. Us knights will be part of it, along with the crusades and the Al Bhed, if they can get them to join the mission. That's why we're training here now, so that we're ready if the mission will happen."

"A joint mission to fight sin?" Harry asked slowly. "But sir, I thought Sin was unpredictable. How can you plan a mission against something when you can't know when or where it will be?"

Adrak smiled slightly. "I believe the Crusaders have captured Sin spawns," he said. "It's believed that when enough of Sin spawns are brought together, Sin himself will show up. The idea is to lure Sin into a spot where we can attack it at all possible sides. Or, that is what they plan, but only if the Al Bhed join in."

"Why only if they join?" the wizard asked, wondering.

"Because they have the forbidden Machina. We Knights and the Crusaders don't have any means of fighting something like Sin, not really, but the Al Bhed have cannons and such," Adrak said and then sighed. "I don't much care for this plan myself, to be honest, but it is the best plan I have heard in a long while. Usually all we can do is fight sin spawns that the monster himself leaves behind and then help rebuilding what Sin destroyed. This operation, if it pulls through, might be the best chance we will ever get at actually doing something - aside from protecting Summoners and wishing them well."

"Ah," Harry nodded. Sin came back for it's spawn? That was… fairly odd behaviour for a immortal monster. As Adrak headed away, Harry ran his hand over his messy black hair, staring up to the sky. Machina, if it was cannon, had to mean technology then and the Al Bhed were the only ones who had it? Well, if it was forbidden, he could maybe finally understand Dnana's conflicted feelings about them a little better. Forbidden technology, Crusaders and Knights and great big whopping monster, immortal and nearly unstoppable… what a world.

After a moment of thinking, Harry grinned. An operation to fight Sin was just what he needed to get a nice good look at the beast himself. Joining the Chocobo Knights had ended up being a better idea than he had thought.

x

Harry had just gotten over the disappointment after Tar had informed him that no, he couldn't teach him any white magic, when Adrak informed them that they would be moving from Calm Lands to Mi'ihen highroad.

"I got a message from Captain Lucil - she wants us to start training together so that all the knights can move as one when the time comes, and I agree with her reasoning. We need to move with same formations and to do that, we need to learn those formations together," Adrak said to the group of knights and novices. "It doesn't seem we're going to get any more recruits here, in any case."

"And no wonder - it's much more profitable to join the monks, so anyone in Bevelle who wants anything to for with fighting will rather go to them. Spoiled brats," Tar muttered in the back.

"Quite," Adrak agreed with a sigh. "I was hoping we could make use of the monster arena here, but I suppose it doesn't matter now. It's best we pack now and start to get ready to move as soon as possible - the sooner we go, the sooner we can join our brothers in Mi'ihen Highroad."

"Monster arena?" Harry asked from another novice.

"Yeah. Some weird guy has this arena in the west side of the plains - for the Summoners. When they come here, they want to train some more, so they go to the monster arena to test their skills and summons, because they know they won't get another chance after they go to Mt Gagazet," the novice, Egea said. "Well, that was the original idea anyway. I think the Ronsos use it more than Summoners do."

As the other knights headed around, starting to collect their things and pulling the tents down, Harry wondered about such a concept as monster arena. He had seen some hints of beasts in the fields, but they had seemed to be avoiding him for the most part. It was pity no one had told him about the place - he would've loved to check it out.

"You, rookie. Come here," Tar snapped him out of his ideas, making Harry turn around. The man was already walking away though, towards the supply tent, and Harry had to jog after him. "I've been remodelling some armour for you. Let's get this over with," the surly weapon smith said, pointing a spot. "Stand there, take off that ridiculous jacket."

"It's not ridiculous," Harry answered automatically, but undressed it. He rather liked the jacket, it was familiar enough, but he had to admit that the long hem had been a bit bothersome while training and he had ended up mostly going without it and just wearing his shirt instead.

"Okay. Let's start with something proper. Here. Put these on," Tar said throwing him a short leather jacket and trousers with strange padding here and there. Rising a single eyebrow at it, Harry quickly pulled them on, despite how weird it felt to be wearing something that was so tight to his skin, knowing now better than to start arguing with the man. Tar had nearly stabbed him when he had asked about white magic one time too many.

The padding made more sense, when Tar started pulling out the pieces of the armour set. First guard that covered his shoulders, shoulder blades and upper arms, which were connected to each other and to guards that went to either side of his hips by long leather straps that went neatly over the padded points of the jacket. Then a chest plate and the matching plate on the back, also connected by straps.

As Harry marvelled the craftsmanship and felt fairly brilliant under the weight of the armour, Tar went about fastening shin guards around his legs and over his knees, before taking out plates which went over his thighs and were strapped to the guards at Harry's hips. The assembly was complete with long gauntlets and gloves of sturdy, thick leather.

All in all, the get up was heavier than he had thought, but not as heavy as he has feared - it definitely had a presence, but it wasn't overwhelming. The padding buffered the whole thing nicely and the weight wasn't concentrated anywhere, but rather spread all throughout. Harry also suspected that he'd be thanking the padding to high heavens after few hours of wearing the armour - it didn't feel that much weight now, but after a while it probably would.

"There," Tar said, after testing the armour by tugging on it here and there, and finally handed him a helmet. "Now you look like a Chocobo Knight."

Harry eyed the helmet for a moment. It was definitely designed with the chocobo motif in mind - the visor was sharp and the entire helmet kind of reminded him of a chocobo's head, especially since it had a tail of long yellow feathers.

"The armour obviously has some openings - we can't make it fully covering without making it too heavy," Tar said. "I'm still trying to get the Captain to approve some chain mail, but that might have to wait until after the operation, if it ever happens."

"Okay," Harry nodded, before lifting the helmet up. It at first felt a little loose around his head, and he said as much.

"I'll see if I can add some padding," Tar agreed, taking the helmet. "Not all knights wear a helmets, mind you, but the ones that don't are complete idiots. You fall of a chocobo's back on full run and don't have a helmet - and it's a trip to the Farplane for you next. Give me a moment."

Harry nodded thoughtfully as the man went to get the padding and waved his hands around a little to see how well he could move. It was a bit constricting around the shoulders, he couldn't lift his arms straight up, but other than that the armour wasn't really that stifling. And he wouldn't have minded even if it had been because he was wearing _armour_. He was a _knight_. How bloody awesome was _that_?

"If all Chocobo Knighs don't wear helmets, does it mean that not all of them wear armour either?" Harry asked.

"Well, there's no form as far as the knights go. We're still new and we have next to no rules as far as gear goes - hell, most of us don't have the funds to kit ourselves properly. We Bevelle Knights got lucky with Captain Adrak - he can raise funding like no other," Tar said, coming back and lifting the helmet to Harry's head. "How's that?"

"Definitely better," Harry nodded, and lifted his chin as the man strapped the helmet strap under his chin.

With a satisfied nod, Tar slammed the visor down to cover the upper half of Harry's face. "How well can you see?"

"Pretty well," Harry answered. Especially since he hadn't even thought of needing glasses since coming to Spira. Maybe death cured people of their eyesight problems? "What about else where? There are other factions of knights, aren't there?"

"Us Bevelle Knights, then the Djose Knights and the Mi'ihen Knights. They both operate in mostly Mi'ihen highroad, but the Mi'ihen Knights also have people from Kilika and Besaid, while Djose Knights have people from above Mi'ihen highroad and from Djose obviously," Tar nodded. "We Bevelle Knights wear heaviest armours of all of the Chocobo Knights," he added proudly. "Mostly thanks to myself, of course."

"Of course," the wizard answered with a straight face. "What kind of armour the others wear then?"

Tar scoffed. "The Mi'ihen Knight barely wear any armour at all at times, just jackets and such. We're also the only ones who seriously carry shields - some of the Djose Knights carry them too, sure, but they're mostly more spear and lance oriented. We have the benefit of bigger chocobos, though - the Calm Land chocobos grow good hundred pounds heavier than other chocobos do."

"Cool," Harry nodded. "So, when will I get a shield?"

"Right now," Tar said, and clapped him heavily on the armoured shoulder. "Come this way and we'll find something that fits you and your naginata."

Harry ended up getting fairly light and small shield - usable, but definitely smaller than most of the Bevelle Knights used. It was Tar's decision, the man had said that he needed a shield he could easily release if he needed to grip his weapon with both hands, but it was fine for Harry. He had only been in the knights about a week but he knew well enough it would take months and years before he'd be good enough to make that sort of decisions.

"Now. Let's find Mertyn and see what we can cook up for that bird of yours," Tar said, and Harry followed him out of the tent. To be one armoured man among couple of dozen was definitely better than to be the cloth-wearing novice, he decided, and smiled proudly to himself as they went hunting for the chocobo specialist.

It turned out that the chocobo that had been dubbed as Harry's chocobo had already been kitted up. The bird was now wearing a fairly new looking breast plate proudly, prancing around among the other chocobos and preening all the way. "I didn't try putting a chamfron on her yet - figured you ought to do that."

"Chamfron?" Harry asked, a bit confused, and was promptly handed what looked like a helmet for a chocobo. "Oh, okay then. Chamfron," Harry agreed and made a mental note to see if the pieces of his armour had names. They probably weren't all called _guards _or_ plates_.

Shaking his head, he tugged the chamfron under his arm, before approaching the bird that had taken liking to him. She warbled with slight confusion, tilting her head to the side, before letting out an excited warble and coming closer. Realising that she probably hadn't recognised him under the armour, Harry chuckled softly and scratched the underside of her beak. He had yet to try and ride her, but in the last days she had gotten used to all sort of saddles and had carried even some luggage without a problem.

"Let's see what kind of mood you're today, shall we?" he asked, and as she cooed happily into his hand, he lifted the chamfron to her head. She took it surprisingly well, pulling back a couple of times and shaking her wings a little, but staying still as he, with Metryn's directions, tied the chamfron on. "Who's my pretty girl? You are, yes you are," Harry cooed to the bird once the face guard was in place, giving her all the scratching she desired.

"Probably better you try riding her now," Mertyn said, as the bird cooed happily at Harry and Tar headed off to pack his things. "If I know the Captain, we'll be moving out within couple of hours. We'll need to know if you can ride her or if you will be riding with someone before then," the man explained and then grinned. "You're suitably protected now too, if she decides to throw you off."

"Let's try it then," Harry agreed, chuckling.

The bird didn't end up shaking him off - somewhat anticlimactically, she only seemed slightly puzzled to have him on her back, but not too bothered by it. Steering proved out to be a bit of a problem as she wasn't used to be commanded around like that, and Harry, though he had learned some about chocobo riding, was no expert at it. After few starts and long moments spent just standing still, they managed to find something resembling of unity, and managed to ride a couple of times around the camp without trouble - before she decided that they were going for a run and nearly carried him off the camp entirely.

Harry managed to persuade her to turn back just in time, for couple of knights to see him and decide that him and his overly excited bird needed some weight to slow them down. While Harry tried to keep his chocobo still, the knights added some bags to the saddle, along with one of the already packed tents and some cooking supplies. The chocobo faltered a little under the weight, but mostly because of surprise than strain, and seeing that the other birds were getting even heavier loads, Harry didn't feel too worried.

Hour or so later, after everything had been packed with surprising speed and everything had been checked and re-checked, the entire company was ready to move. Harry, who hadn't seen all of the knights in one place before, was both surprised how many of them - and somewhat disappointed, because really, twenty seven knights wasn't _that_ many when you knew that they were about half of the entire regiment. Fifty, sixty knights wasn't that much - and some eight of them were rookies like him.

"Alright, Chocobo Knights. It's been a good training we've been doing, everyone's been working hard," Captain Adrak said, as they lined up - Harry with some difficulty, since his chocobo wanted to get going already and standing still wasn't apparently fun for her.

"Good job everyone," Adrak nodded, before looking ahead. "There's still a long way to go, but we're definitely getting there. Now, first we'll go to Macalania woods, before we move onto Bevelle where we will spend the night. Depending on the time we arrive at Bevelle, you may get the night off." He eyed them in silence for a moment before nodding. "Let's move out," he then said, and turned his chocobo around.

Harry shifted into a better position on his chocobo's saddle, before leaning forward and setting out with the others, as with impressive thunder of talons against the soil of the plains, they left the camp site. He had no idea how long the journey would be or how fast it would be crossed - chocobos could run pretty fast, after all - but either way, he was fairly sure he was going to be sore by the end of it and, as wonderful as it was to feel things, he wasn't sure if that was a feeling he much liked.

"Do you have a plan?" the ghost boy's voice asked, and glancing over his shoulder Harry saw the kid, sitting behind him with his back against the back plate of wizard's armour.

"I'm working on it," the wizard answered, more in his head than out loud, and looked ahead again, grinning. "I want to see Sin. As a knight, I think I will get the chance pretty soon."

The boy didn't answer for a long while. "The others are considering alternatives," he then said, leaning his head back against the metal of Harry's armour. "Or maybe you're the alternative. We didn't plan for you, but we planned other things. They think we should hold onto those plans."

"It's always good to have backups. I might as well fail," Harry shrugged and glanced at the kid over his shoulder. "Do you have other ghosts in your back pockets you can drag onto this world?"

"No," the boy shook his head. "But we have dreams."

x

Macalania woods were incredible. Harry was sure he hadn't seen anything so beautiful in eons and he had seen the most incredible super novas and gas clouds - even gone through some of them. A forest seemingly growing out of ice _as_ ice, glimmering and sparkling even in the slightest bit of light. And yet, despite being so icy, the place wasn't all that cold - it was damp, sure, but oddly warm considering that there was ice, everywhere.

"The winds of the Calm Lands keep this part of the forest warm. Below Bevelle, the Macalania area is cold," Tar said when he mentioned the warmth. "Better enjoy the warmth while it lasts because after Bevelle it's Macalania lake for us, and then the Thunder Plains, and those are just miserable."

"Now you're making me all happy and gleeful that I joined the knights. All the wonderful travelling you get to do," Harry grinned, lifting his visor and peering up to the sky. The woods had a canopy of what looked like ice flowers. It was just so… incredibly _pretty_, making him seriously wish he had a camera. "How long until we make it to Bevelle?"

"Not long - we should be there well before night fall," Tar answered. "We'll be on the actual road soon - travelling will be quicker then."

Harry hummed a little at that and shook his head. He wouldn't have minded if they had spent an eternity in the wood - but to know that there would be move of them after Bevelle was welcome. He could keep on staring them after wards. He needed to get a map of Spira, seriously. Or at least the local areas, just so that he wouldn't be completely in the dark about it.

Sighing, he leaned his head back, and let the chocobo follow the others as it willed, and just stared. Calm lands had been a practical feast for his sense of smell, and Macalania woods was definitely one for his eyes. The passing gratitude for having miraculously repaired eyesight returned now with full force and contently he smiled, knowing he'd remember the place long after he had left Spira behind. It was just so very pretty…

It was in the Macalania woods that both Harry and his chocobo started to feel the weight of their respective armours. Harry's shoulders were starting to ache and it felt like he couldn't move his arms at all, while below him the chocobo drooped a little, swaying as it took steps. While Harry considered cheating and starting to add featherweight charms onto everything, or maybe loosing some of the plates - of all the knights, only he and Adrak were wearing full sets - the knights at his side chuckled.

"You don't think I put you in full armour for no reason, do you?" Tar scoffed. "No, you need to get used to the weight. You and especially your bird. "

"Oh. That makes sense," Harry nodded slowly. No feather weight charms then, it wouldn't be much of a training if he cheated. Sighing he patted his chocobo's neck. "Hang in there, girl."

"We'll be in Bevelle soon, you both can loosen some of the weight then," Mertyn chuckled and then gave him a thoughtful look. "Have you thought of a name for your bird yet?"

Harry frowned. He hadn't given it any thought. Glancing down, he gave the brilliant yellow chocobo he was riding a thoughtful look, wondering. Reaching out, he ran his gloved hand over the bright feathers of his bird's back and nodded to himself. "Sol," he said, and the bird let out a happy warble in answer.

"Sol," Mertyn said slowly and nodded. "What does it mean?"

"It's the old name of a star I once knew," Harry answered, smiling a little at the memory. When Earth had gone to icy sleep, sun really had tried to keep it warm. It hadn't felt so cold, with the sun always shining, even when the entire planet had been covered by miles of ice.

Shaking his head, Harry patted Sol's neck before looking up ahead. By the looks of it, they had finally found the road - if it could be called that, it was really only a slightly wider path through the beautiful frozen forests. "Ten more miles until Bevelle," Adrak called from the front. "Let's step up the pace a little."

x

Bevelle was like nothing Harry had imagined. After seeing the tent-building of the Calm Lands store, and the tents of the Chocobo Knights, he had suspected that the city would be fairly simplistic, maybe a bit exotic in terms of design, but probably kind of plain.

It was so far from plain and simple that he felt a little embarrassed. It was _incredible_. It stood some twenty meters high on a sort of enormous platform, with walls looping around it, most likely to protect it from Sin. Inside the walls the buildings were mostly made of red stone and the designs were incredibly artistic - in the way Earth's architecture had been once, before function had started became more important than outlooks, except in completely different way. The city arched and looped and so did the buildings - and more than that, the city reached upwards in form of sturdy towers and bridges that crossed between sections of what seemed to be a palace.

"The temple gets me every time," Metryn sighed, looking up to the palace and making a strange gesture with his hands, like holding a ball, before bowing his head. Harry gave him a considering look and then glanced at the others to see that many of them were making the same gestures, bowing their heads at the _temple_. Looking up again, Harry wondered if he was seeing Spira's version of Mecca or something.

"Alright. We will go straight to the barracks and tend to our chocobos," Adrak called to them, as they made their way idly down a wide, carefully paved street. "Once we are done, you can have the night to yourselves. Go see your families if you have them - it is unlikely we will make it back to Bevelle in a while, once we join our brothers in the Mi'ihen highroad. Just be back and ready to go by sunrise."

"But just because you're going to have a night off, that does not mean you get to neglect your birds," Mertyn added sharply. "I see one feather out of line and I will have your hides!"

The knights chuckled at that, but Harry could see a couple of them sharing a slightly guilty glances, apparently having considered it. Grinning, Harry patted Sol's neck and then leaned a little forward to urge the bird to follow others, as Adrak sped up and the others followed suit.

The Chocobo Knight barracks were a bit grander than he had suspected they would be, after the tents - but considering how rest of Bevelle looked, maybe it wasn't that big of a shock. The building was grand, with four stories and that same arching beauty that seemed to be designed into every building of Bevelle. The stables were in the first floor and the quarters for the knights were above judging by the looks of it - and there was a small pasture for the chocobos on the side.

They got down from their saddles in the front of the stables, and judging by the warbling and kwehing of some of them, they knew they were home. Harry and Sol followed Mertyn and Berka inside through high double doors obviously made to fit a chocobo, to see that the stables, while not exactly high fashion, also followed the same designs as the front of the building.

"That one's empty, you can put Sol there. You can get some fresh hay from the back - and there should be chocobo feed on the pails to the left," Mertyn said. "Better remove his gear and armour first, though."

Harry did, glad that he had been taught the motions even if he hadn't practiced them on Sol first. He undressed the chamfrom and the chest plate before going about taking off the packs and finally freeing his bird from the saddle and reigns. While Sol flapped her wings and stretched her neck, happy to be free of the burden, Harry turned to the stable.

Keeping a chocobo in the fields and keeping one in a stable were two different things and stables took some work than a simple green pasture did. Harry didn't mind the work, as he spread some hay for his chocobo to rest on, and then got Sol something to eat - though he would've preferred not being in a full bleeding armour while he was doing it. By the time he was done and Sol was happily making herself comfortable in the spot he had painstakingly made for her, he was sweating like a river and actually getting pretty tired.

A dead man getting tired. What a notion.

"Come on, rookie," Tar said, after getting his own sturdy bird into a stable. "Let's go upstairs, I want to see you removing that armour."

"Yes, sir," Harry answered. After carefully hanging the saddle and the plates into their designated places, he collected what little belongings he had - which mostly consisted his old clothing, his naginata and shield - and followed the elder knight. Tar led him to the stairs and up to what seemed to be a common room of sorts, and then into a changing room where there were racks especially set out for people's armour and gear.

"Alright. Here's a spot for you. Get to it," Tar said, pointing at a locker and a rack and folding his arms expectantly. Sighing, Harry got to work.

Wearing armour was awesome. Getting it off after wearing it for hours was _heaven_.

"Okay, passable," Tar said, after Harry has finished by hanging the shin guards to the rack. "We'll have to go through the motions a couple of times for you to get efficient at it, not to mention about the fact that you probably have no idea how to put the armour on, but we'll get to that later. Now, let's stretch you back to shape before your back gets permanently stuck in that slouch."

Correction, Harry groaned in his head. If getting armour off always included torturous session of stretching afterwards, then it was hell.

By the time Tar pronounced him about ready and went to get another poor novice to stretch out of shape, Harry felt like a all the bones in his body were screaming for a vacation, and his muscles were already trying to escape to one. The high of having a body was definitely coming down, he decided as he leaned his head from side to side and listened to his spine crackle. He hadn't though that, despite not needing food or sleep, he could still feel this sort of tiredness and pain. It was still probably nowhere near as bad as it could've been if he had been alive, but still. The deal with the dead of this world wasn't looking as perfect as it had.

"Come on," one of the other novices said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's get washed and changed and see if we can find a place to soothe our sores and aches in. Preferably with large amounts of liquor."

"I like that plan," Harry groaned in answer and rubbed his aching shoulder. What was with these people and clapping other people on the shoulders? Especially when those shoulders were covered by armour-bruises and sores.

Regardless of that or how the other novice laughed at him he went, after a nice warm bath and quick change into his robe-cloak which was really a jacket. Bevelle's nightlife turned out to be about as nice looking as it's day life, with the pub they went to being one of the fanciest pubs ever - regardless of the fact that it was also, apparently, Bevelle's cheapest. It had fancy lightning and fancy tables and fancy chairs and the waitresses were all very fancy too.

After a few shots of some berry liquor from Besaid, though, Harry didn't really care. Dead people could get drunk. Who knew?

x

Dead people didn't get hangovers, apparently, of which Harry felt very glad of in the morning when Tar kicked him and the other novices off their bunks. He wasn't entirely sure how or when he had gotten there in the previous night - or why he had decided to go to sleep when he even didn't need sleep. Things had gone a bit blurry after the fifth shot, and all he could remember was that there had been a really nice statue in the bar and that he had probably spent most of the night marvelling it.

"Get up, you knaves," Tar spat at them. "We're setting off in a hour and Adrak wants you lot washed and tidied before we go. Up, up and to it!"

While the other novices moaned about sadists and Sin spawns, Harry stretched his arms experimentally. The kinks of wearing armour were still there, but not as bad as in the previous night. Happy and not just a little bit gleeful, he jumped up, and left his hangover suffering novice mates to their gruelling tasks of trying to get up from their beds, and went to find a shower.

"You know, I say this with all the respect I can possibly muster, but you're weird as hell," said one of the other novices, after staggering to the shower as well.

"It was a pretty statue," Harry said a bit defensively, though he couldn't remember much about it. "You… are talking about the statue, right?" he then asked, wondering if he had done something else except marvel the statue. He might've.

"Well, that was weird too, but I'm talking about the girl. She kept throwing herself at you and you, what, taught her how to do tricks with gil?" the other man frowned, trying to remember.

"Oh, that. Meh," Harry answered, and turned to the shower. He remembered it, vaguely. A young woman with long bright red hair. She had been pretty alright. She had also been a she. And a redhead. "Not my game, that."

"Not your _game_? The hell?"

Harry shrugged. "Lost my taste in women after my first marriage," he answered honestly. Ginny had been a handful, yes she had been. "And you don't need to be so mad about it - I tried to push the gal to you, didn't I? Can you pass me the soap?"

The other novice gave him a strange look but passed the soap. "After your first marriage. You still got married again?"

"Yeah, did. Three times. Just, not to women," Harry shrugged and got back to washing. There was a long silence before the other novice barked a laugh and got to work as well, shaking his head and chuckling every now and then. He probably thought it was a joke. Harry shrugged again and ignored it in favour of washing his hair.

After washing and drying and dressing up to the padded leathers, Harry got back to his armour with Tar watching the process carefully and correcting him when he was about to strap something wrong. Once he was done and Tar had moved onto helping the other novices, Harry got his things, his shield and his naginata, and then headed down to the stables to see Sol - who, like other chocobos, were warbling and kwehing in their stables, all ready to go.

Well, not quite. Harry sighed and set his things down so that he could tend to Sol - to gear her and get her ready for travel. Once she was set and waiting in the pen, he went about cleaning the stable. Another thing that had been easier to handle in the plains, he mused.

"Good, we're all here," Adrak said once they had all gathered outside - and that was really all of them. Harry, who stood in the side with Sol and the other novices and their birds, watched with little bit of awe as the fifty senior knights all stood in neat line with their armoured birds standing stock still beside them. How long had they trained, he wondered while doing his best to keep Sol from acting up.

"We'll set out in a moment. Lieutenant Darak will go first with his squadron, as they're the fastest, then Lieutenant Harna and her squadron. Myself, my Knights and the novices will keep the tail. We will meet at the Macalania temple in two days," the Captain said. "Any questions?" he waited for a moment and when no one said anything he nodded. "Alright. Darak, you can go."

"Yes, sir!" the man snapped and turned to the dozen knights around him. "Chocobo Knights, move out!"

As the first squad headed off, the talons of their birds drumming a tattoo onto the pavement, Adrak turned to the novices. "Any of you unfamiliar with the southern Macalania? Don't be shy, we need to know if you're poorly kitted for the weather."

Harry lifted his hand, along with one other novice. Adrak eyed them and then nodded. "Tar, see to that they have proper gear. We don't want any of us catching cold," he said, glancing at the armourer before turning to the novices again. "Macalania mountains are cold, the coldest place you will probably ever see. The winds can push you down and if you fall into the rivers, it is unlikely that you will survive the aftermath. So I don't want any fooling around on the road - you stick to the path and follow your seniors, they know what to do better than you do. And if you know what's good for you, you will keep your bird constantly on move and warm. Their feathers will protect them, but not from everything. Any questions?"

Harry lifted one hand. "Just one, sir. Is it wise to wear armour in there if it's so cold? The metal's not exactly good for keeping warm." Even the senior knights were all in full armour now - as were their birds. It was very impressive looking, all the men and women gleaming in sunlight with their helmet tails bright and proud, but it wasn't very functional in cold weather.

"Good point. However, the mountains are infested with fiends. We need the protection of armour more than we need to stay warm - fiends will kill us faster than the weather will," Adrak said and nodded to them. "Tar, see that the novices are kitted," he said, turning away. "You have half an hour."

"Right, right. Come on you lot, let's get to it," Tar said, and leaving Sol to the hands of Metryn, Harry followed him with the other novices.

Kitting in this time meant the addition of cloaks and capes to their outfits. Dark red leather cloaks which went over the armour and fur lined white capes which were attached to the shoulder guards, to be exact.

"These won't save your life in the tundra, but they will keep you warm while you ride. I suggest you keep your helmets on and your visors down, it'll protect you from the wind," Tar said, after showing them how to attach the capes. "Now pack them up. You won't be wearing them until we make it to the mountains - pull them on before and you'll boil in your armour."

After bundling the new pieces of cloth, Harry and the other novices returned outside, where the second squadron of knights had already left.

"Alright, let's mount and move out. We're wasting the morning, standing around here," Adrak said, and after he had exchanged a few words with the knights who would be staying behind in the barracks, he left the knights out of Bevelle and towards south.

x

The knights hadn't been kidding about how cold it was in the Macalania mountains. Few miles in into the more snowier areas of the mountains, Adrak stopped their advance so that everyone could pull their cloaks and capes on. Some even added woollen hats under their helmets for extra warmth - Harry nearly wished he had one too, before just going with the easiest solution and casting a warming charm to the thing. Then, with capes flapping behind them rather dramatically, they set out again, the chocobos trekking in the snowy paths with ease.

The mountains, though excruciatingly cold, were magnificent to see. High and pure white and shining in the sunlight. Harry had to wonder if they were Spira's highest mountains or if there some other higher ones somewhere - and how was it that they were colder than the calm lands, which were a more to the north… but in the end, it didn't matter that much. All that really matter was getting through them without freezing to death. That, and enjoying the spectacular view while it lasted.

They spend a fairly miserable night in the side of one of the mountains, cooped up in tents and trying to keep warm. Mostly they succeeded, huddling together and sharing body warmth, but for Harry it was a long and boring and cold night, as he couldn't have slept in the howling of the wind, even if he had figured out the trick of sleeping without alcohol's involvement.

He blessed his death-born insomnia though, when the knights in guard sounded the alarm via a horn, calling "FIENDS!" for all the camp to hear. Harry was first one of the novices up and armed, and among the first knights ready to fight, when the pack of canine-like fiends attacked.

"Snow wolves," Adrak snapped. "Fastest fighters to the front, those on back will pull back anyone who gets hit with status attack! Harry, to the side, try and hit them with magic when we distract them!"

"Yes, sir!" the knights snapped. Harry ran around the knights to the side, and while Adrak, Tar and Metryn attacked, he swung the naginata to the front, trying to figure what to use, what would be safest to use without needing to fear hitting the other knights.

The fight started before he could decide, and he was forced to act, rather than think. The wolves were fast, flitting around the knights and trying to take bites out of their ankles and knees. Harry, though, was more worried about the two wolves on the side, who were dashing towards the wind-shield they erected to protect the chocobos from the elements.

"Reducto!" Harry growled, swinging the Naginata heavily and sending the cutting magic at the wolves. He grinned fleetingly as the creatures were instantly sliced - and then raised a eyebrow at the way they just burst apart and into flickering lights that seemed to spread to each direction. It was kind of pretty, but definitely weird. Was _that_ how things died here, they just.. turned to little flaming balls of magic?

He didn't have the time to wonder about that now, he decided, and turned around - just in time to see a monster making its way towards him. Hurriedly he raised his shield and fitted the naginata's handle into the lance-hold on his armour, before stepping forward like Tar had tried to teach him, and bracing for the impact. The wolf realised the danger too late and slammed right into the blade of Harry's weapon, where it hung for a moment, growling, before bursting into flickering lights as well.

Around him, the other wolves were bursting apart under the attacks of the knights, but there was still more of the wolves advancing - and there was already handful of knights down and being dragged back by the others. While wondering what they were exactly and how the whole fiend thing worked, Harry released his naginata from the lance hold and swing it forward again. A stupefy saved one of his fellow knights from being slammed into, and another redactor curse took care of another wolf.

Adrak took care of the last of the wolves, having managed to avoid being hit. He used a lance like a master, Harry noted while watching amazement how the man thrust and pierced a wolf after another, leaving only trail of flickering lights behind him. It was obvious he had been in fights before.

"Report! Casualties?" the Captain barked out as soon as all the fiends had been taken care off.

"No deaths. Janeh, Metryn, Dan and Hara all got hit by Sleep, though," Tar grunted back from where he was checking the four knights. "Hara got hit bad," he added, nodding at one female knight who lay on the snow beside him. "I doubt she'll be waking up anytime soon."

Sleep? Harry frowned slightly and stepped forward, winging his naginata to his shoulder. "I've never fought these fiends before," he said smoothly. "They… make you sleep?"

"Yeah. They have magic that, if you get hit by it, knocks you out cold. They can also block magic, but it's the sleep that usually gets people," Adrak said, coming closer. He sighed, running a gloved hand over his chin. "I guess we have to use a remedy on Hara at least," he sighed. "I was hoping to save those until later."

"Sir, mind if I try something?" Harry asked. "If it's just sleep, I might have a spell that might wake them up?"

"You said you didn't know Esuna," Tar said, scowling at him.

"I don't," Harry agreed. "But I know another one, that's specifically meant for waking people up. Should I try it, sir?"

"Go ahead. If it will save us some potions, I'll be more than happy to let you cast any magic you can," Adrak said, and then watched how Harry pointed the handle of his naginata at sleeping Hara.

Rennervate, it turned out, worked just as well against magically caused sleep as it had back on Earth. All the four knights woke up after Harry hit them with the spell, looking a little disoriented, but none too worse for wear.

"Good, that's good," Adrak said, after Tar had checked the four over. "I would've liked it better if I had known you could do that before, but now that I know I will keep it in mind. It will no doubt save lives before long." He nodded and stood up, looking at the other knights and the messed up campsite. "We can't stay here - the Pyreflies will attract more fiends here. Best we start packing up and get going - it's almost morning in any case. We can rest when we get to the Macalania temple."

"Yes sir," the now yawning knights answered and while couple of them made them some hasty breakfast, the rest pulled down the tents and repacked them. Harry helped here and there before going to check up on Sol. The chocobos had been a bit spooked out by the fight, but other than being a little wild around the eyes, they looked more or less fine.

"There's my good girl," Harry said, approaching the chocobo to scratch her neck compassionately. "A miserable night, wasn't it? Let's get you and the others something to eat, shall we?" he asked, and after she cooed her slightly sleepy answer, he turned to help Metryn with taking care of the chocobo's feeding.

Hour or so and some lukewarm soup later, they were on the move again, taking it a bit slower this time, since it was still a bit too dark to go at chocobo's running speed safely. As the sun begun to get up from behind the mountains, the early awakening stopped seeming like such a bad thing - the sunrise was magnificent sight as it shed light onto the white mountain sides, making them glimmer and glow.

It could've been a start of a beautiful day, if the fiends hadn't attacked soon after the sun had risen.

x

By the time they made it to Macalania Lake, they had ran into four different packs of fiends. The fights in those time had been easier to handle, with all the knights mounted and in their element the wolves hadn't stood a chance - and neither had whatever the other beasts had been. Harry hadn't even needed to cast awakening spells more than three times, and two of those times he had had to do it on chocobos, rather than their riders.

Despite the easy victory in the fights, there was relief in everyone's faces when they arrived at the Macalania lake. "Just few more miles and we'll be at the temple entrance," one of them sighed, stretching his arms. "I can't wait to have a go at the baths."

"I just want some shut eye for longer than couple of hours," another answered, and cajoling about what they would enjoy at the temple, they set forward again, Harry listened to them curiously, wondering. The way he understood it was that the Summoners got their Aeons from temples - like the huge palace of a temple at Bevelle and this one. But the way the knights talked about it, they made it sound like a luxury hotel, rather than spiritual place.

"Have you ever been to the Macalania Temple?" Metryn asked Harry.

"The only temple I've ever seen is the Bevelle one, and I've never been inside it," Harry answered honestly. "What is it like, the Macalania temple?"

"It's the second biggest temple - just after the Bevelle temple, of course," the chocobo specialist said. "It's the only place where people can stop between Thunder Plains and Bevelle, though, so among all the temples, the Macalania one has the best accommodations for travellers. You have to pay for it, of course, unless you're a Summoner or a Guardian, but it's well worth it. Especially since High Priest Seymour took over High Priest Adarkan's role." The man sighed and smiled wistfully. "He added the baths."

Harry grinned slightly. "I guess that would make the place a whole lot more attractive in this place," he murmured, looking around them. Ice, ice and more ice. Very pretty, but a hot bath sounded pretty awesome after all of it. "I'll be looking forward to seeing the famed baths, then."

The Macalania temple itself turned out was neither on the ice or the lake, but underneath it. The entrance, which stood unassumingly in the side of a icy cliff, let them into a enormous ice cavern where, in the middle, stood the temple. Harry wasn't entirely sure what it was made of, or how, but it looked like one of the most important building materials were ice and snow. Even the bridge leading from the cavern entrance to the temple suspended in the middle of the cavern was ice.

"Keep your chocobo's in reign. If you fall from here, you won't make it even with the luck of Sin himself," Adrak warned them, before they started making they way across the icy bridge and towards the temple. Harry was having hard time hiding his awe at the whole thing - the whole thing was just, in word, _magnificent_. How anyone had managed to make it he had no idea. Magic, maybe? A _whole_ lot of magic. Epic amounts of it.

Harry shook his head slightly, and finally managed to close his mouth, as they carefully made their way down to the temple entrance. And he had thought that Macalania woods were pretty. _Merlin_.

They were met at the temple entrance by a couple of men, one of them wearing very impressive sets of robes and another looking fairly peculiar. He had long arms with almost sharp looking long fingers with what looked like branches and roots for hair.

"You must be Captain Adrak and his knights," the man with branches for hair said, as the Captain dismounted. The branch-haired man did the weird bal thing with his hands. "Welcome to the temple of Macalania. I am adept Giyal, at your service."

"Thank you for your words of welcome, we're very honoured to be here," Adrak said, answering the bow in kind. "I trust everything has been well here, at the temple."

"Oh yes, we have been enjoying a very peaceful and quiet month," the adept nodded and then motioned them to enter. "Your lieutenants have already arrived and we have made accommodations ready for you and your party. This way."

"We need to tend to our chocobos, Adept Giyal," Metryn said, stepping forward to take Adrak's bird's reigns. "Do you mind if we head straight for the stables?"

"Of course, of course, please do," the adept said, and nodded at the robed man at his side, "Priest Denet will show you the way."

Harry ands most of the knights followed the human priest, while Adrak headed inside with the man. "You've never seen a Guado before?" Metryn asked, noticing Harry's slightly confused look.

"Hm. You could say I grew under a rock," Harry shrugged sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

"It's okay, not many are adjusted to seeing them so much. They don't come out of the Guadosalam much," Metryn nodded thoughtfully. "It hasn't been more than twenty years since Maester Jyscal took the word of Yevon to the Guado, has it? And the Guado are pretty withdrawn folk anyway, I haven't seen more than four or so in Bevelle in my whole life. Except for Maester Jyscal, of course."

"Right," Harry nodded, as if he knew what he was talking about. He made a mental note to keep his ears open for Guados and Maester Jyscal, whoever he was.

The temple stables were even finer than the ones the knights had in Bevelle, and remarkably well stocked considering that the place was almost literally in the middle of nowhere. Harry took his time using the fine brushes and such of the stables to tend to Sol's plumage after taking off her gear and to warm the bird up a bit before feeding her and leaving her to rest in the stables. There was no point wasting a fine thing when it was offered, after all.

He and Metryn entered the temple proper together, and again it was all Harry could do to stop himself from gaping like the tourist he was. The front hall of the temple alone was amazing, with crystal for a floor and statues and paintings and such everywhere. There were other people there, what looked like priests and few travellers who were resting and talking amongst themselves - few were, by the looks of it, praying.

"This way. The residential quarters are up here - that way's to the Cloister of Trials, it's off limits for everyone but Summoners," Metryn said, nodding towards the stairs leading up directly in the middle of the room. Harry nodded absently and followed him to the other way, up a staircase and across a corridor to a large meeting room, where the rest of the knights were. Adept Giyal was there, talking with Adrak.

"… is here?" Adrak was asking. "Would it be at all possible to arrange a meeting with him? I would very much like to pay my respects to the High Priest."

"I am sorry. High Priest Seymour is currently performing the Prayer of Silence, and it is unlikely he will be emerging from his chambers anytime soon," the adept said, shaking his head. "I will be happy to bring your regards to him, but I do hope you understand that a High Priest's spiritual duties will always take the highest priority in a temple's life."

"Of course. I would not wish to disturb the High Priest," Adrak nodded. "So as long he knows we appreciate his hospitality."

"Indeed," the adept nodded his head slowly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have duties to attend to. All the areas of the temple are open for you, except for the Cloister of Trials and of course the personal quarters of the priests. I hope you all will enjoy your stay here and do not forget to spend a moment in prayer for those lost and those still wandering." The adept bowed again, doing the weird hand gesture, before turning and heading away.

"Well then. It seems we have some time to relax here," Adrak said, turning to the knights. "I'm sure you're all eager to, so I won't keep you from the baths. Just keep a civil tongue in your heads and do not disgrace the knights. You are all dismissed."

"Sir!" the knights answered in unison, before scattering. While following a couple of the other novices towards what he assumed was the bathing areas, Harry had to wonder about the temple. It had so easily enough space to accommodate some sixty knights? The place must've gotten some enormous traffic - not to mention about funding.

Then he saw the baths and decided that he really didn't care. Because, seriously, _hot baths_.

x

After bathing and taking a moment to see if his armour needed any work done, Harry pulled on the leathers and the cloak and cape of a knight before venturing out to explore the temple. Almost every other knight was doing the same, so he didn't see any harm in it - and there was no way he was going to let the opportunity to pass. The place was too beautiful, way, way too beautiful. The corridors, the stairs, the ceiling of all things - not to mention about the incredible scenery behind every window…

Maybe it was no wonder the place was big and so well made and funded - Harry could've lived in the place quite happily and never gotten bored to. There was just too much to watch, to look at, to stare like idiot at. The mixture of human handiwork and nature's own designs, it was just fascinating to watch.

"So you are him," a quiet female voice spoke from behind him as he looked out one of the windows, and glancing over his shoulder he saw a ghostly figure of a robed woman standing there. "You are the one from space."

"I suppose you could call me that," Harry answered, turning to face the woman. She… felt the same as the ghostly kid. "You are one of the Fayth?" he guessed.

"Yes. I am the Fayth of Shiva," the woman nodded. "Like the boy you have met before was the Fayth of Bahamut," she added and then spent a quiet moment eying him. "He has told us that you do not wish to become a Summoner. You do not think you need our aid."

"It probably would be useful, yeah, and I might end up only messing everything up and failing spectacularly… but no, I don't want to become a Summoner. It's the praying I can't handle, though, not you especially," Harry answered. "I'm not that big on that sort of things these days, sorry."

The woman eyed him silently and then smiled slightly. "If what he told us is true, then I do not wonder that," she mused, stepping forward and looking out of the window. After a moment, she sighed. "I am not like him," she admitted. "He is old. Oldest one among us. I became long after him, with the help of Lady Yunalesca," she said. "I do not feel as tired as he does. But the pain is the same."

Harry hummed in answer, before sitting down onto the elaborate windowsill. "I'm not surprised, if it's the way I figure it is," he mused, looking outside. "I am going to try and help. Seriously, I am. But I'm going to do it my way."

"Yes, and in the meanwhile we will do what we can, however we can do it," the woman agreed.

"As you should," Harry nodded, leaning his head against the windowsill and closing his eyes for a moment before looking up to her. "You were normal human once, weren't you?"

She nodded. "I was a priestess of Yevon, four hundred years ago. They allowed women into the higher priesthood back then, now they can only ordain as nuns or acolytes," she mused. "I was also a Summoner - born and raised in Kilika."

"What made you become a Fayth?" the wizard asked curiously. "How does that happen anyway?"

"Lady Yunalesca has the power to grant that ability to a soul. She is the one who waits in Zanarkand, and grants Summoners with the Final Summoning," the Fayth said, and sighed. "I went to my pilgrimage alone, and I thrived and I succeeded. I collected the Aeons, I mastered all the summoning arts. But when I arrived at Zanarkand, I was alone. I never had a Guardian, so I wasn't able to become a High Summoner.

Harry paused a little at that. "You… _need_ a Guardian for the Final Summoning?"

"He didn't tell you?" the female Fayth asked. "I don't wonder. It is not the exact highpoint of a Summoner's career people make it seem. The Final Summoning as people think it does not exist - there is no Fayth in Zanarkand, only Lady Yunalesca, the first Summoner to ever have defeated Sin. She can, however, create Aeons - and among those she can create is the brief, most powerful creature this world will see, the Final Aeon… the living Aeon, created from the soul of a Summoner's sacrificed Guardian."

Harry scowled. So that was it. "And together they defeat Sin?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. Only, the energy required to call upon the Final Summon will drain the Summoner - and the power driving Sin forward is endless, and cannot be destroyed so as long something remains. Sin dies - and the power that creates it takes its vanquisher. And so the Final Aeon, the Guardian of the new, deceased High Summoner… becomes Sin." The Fayth shook her head, sighing. "Yunalesca told me this. I could not do it, I had no Guardian, there was no one in the world that would've helped me in that moment. She offered me an alternate way to keep on fighting Sin, and I took it. And so I became the Fayth of Shiva."

She was quiet for a moment and Harry didn't know what to say, exactly. "Sometimes I wonder, if it was the right choice. So many winters has passed since then, so many Summoners have prayed to me… and Sin still remains. Sometimes I wonder, if the world is getting smaller, or if Sin is getting bigger."

"Things may seem that way, after a while," Harry nodded, thinking of Voldemort. "But nothing is forever. Not even Sin. If it can be stopped momentarily, then there is also a way to stop it completely."

"You truly believe that?" the Fayth asked quietly.

"Immortality is never anything but an illusion, and even monsters tend to have soft, squishy insides," Harry answered calmly. He smiled at the Fayth, who eyed him, looking like she didn't dare to hope. "I can't promise with absolute conviction that I will succeed. I'm not stupid enough for that. But I can promise to try as long as I am just able to. If there is a way, I will do what I can to find it."

The Fayth sighed and then smiled. "I believe you," she whispered. "I wondered why he did. Especially when you declined our Aeons, our aid. I wondered how someone like him, such an old Fayth, such a wise Fayth, could still believe you… but I see it now. You have something… special."

"It's called a lack of survival instincts," Harry laughed, and reached out to pat her shoulder in the way so many knights had patted his. "But don't put all your eggs in one basket. Whatever I am, I'm still just one guy. I will do all I can and more, but if I fail… well, then I fail, and that's that."

"Yes," the Fayth agreed. "We will move forward also, but perhaps…"

She trailed away and turned around. Harry blinked and glanced up as well, to see that they had company. There was a man standing near by where the corridor arched away, and for a moment Harry could only stare with shock. Not only did the man have the most elaborate robe he had seen yet in Spira, but his hair was… awe striking. And gravity defying. And _blue_.

"Please forgive me," the man said softly, and Harry's gaze zeroed into his eyes. "I did not mean to interrupt your conversation. I shall leave, if you wish it so."

Harry didn't answer at first, just staring. The knowledge that the man had over heard came to him somewhat belatedly, following with the thought that the man could see the Fayth. Feeling oddly dull minded, Harry glanced at the female Fayth, who sighed.

"It is time I return to my crystal. I am not as strong as he is, and straying too far leaves me tired," she said, turning to Harry. "You will… keep your promise," she said, and it didn't sound like a question.

"I will," Harry promised, and stood up. He wasn't going to do that weird hand thing everyone did, it just looked silly to him, but he did bow to the Fayth. She had been pleasant enough conversationalist - not to mention about great source of information. "It was a pleasure to talk with you. Give my regards to the other Fayth."

"I shall," she nodded, and bowed to him, fading away before she managed to straighten her back. Sighing, Harry ran his hand somewhat sheepishly over his hair, and turned to the blue haired man. Blue haired, blue eyed, and with a _great_ face.

Merlin, but he loved Spira. Even the people were so pretty.

"Sorry about that," he said and smiled. "I hope I didn't bother you or anything. Are you a Summoner?" Had he been keeping the Fayth from her duties?

"In a… fashion, I suppose I am," the man agreed, leaning back a little and giving him a curious look. "You are one as well, I suppose, seeing that you are capable of conversing with the Fayth."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah," he answered. "I've met a couple of them, but I'm no Summoner," he answered, sitting back down to the window sill. Smiling, he glanced outside. After spending some minutes looking away, the view outside looked almost anew - and even more spectacular than before. "This place is so beautiful," he mused and glanced at the blue haired man, who had left the side of the wall and was approaching him. "Have you visited this place often?"

"I suppose I have," the man said, and as he stepped closer, more of his face came to view. He had blue veins across his forehead and cheek bones - and somehow, they made him look even better. No to mention about the fact that he had very revealing neckline in his robes. And _tattoos_ on his shoulders. "That cloak…" the man said, looking at Harry's clothing. "You are one of the Chocobo Knights spending the night here."

"Just a novice," Harry admitted, grinning and then frowned. "If you see them, don't tell them about the Fayth, okay? It's a long story, and not really their problem."

"But surely they would be only glad to know that among them is someone who can converse with the Fayth," the man said, folding his fingers elegantly together and hiding his hands in the large sleeves of his robes - but not before Harry saw how incredibly long nails he had.

"It's not what I want to be known for, all I would do was stand out and make myself seem like something I'm not," Harry answered honestly. The less he was known the better, it tended to be.

"Like a Summoner," the man agreed thoughtfully, casting him a considering glance. "You would not wish this, even if it would open you doors, grant you privileges?"

"What's the fun in that?" Harry asked, laughing. "Nothing's worth anything unless you've shed your sweat and blood to get it," he shook his head, and looked outside. "To have privileges and things handed to you because of them would be boring. If I wanted them, I wouldn't have joined organization such as the Chocobo Knights."

"Indeed?" the man asked and hummed when Harry only shrugged his shoulders. "I… must confess, I overheard some of your conversation with the Fayth," the blue haired man admitted after a moment, and only age and experience and former career in politics made Harry stop himself from freezing at that. "You promised the Fayth that you would defeat Sin."

"I only promised to try my best," Harry corrected. "There is a difference."

"Yes, but she believed you. She trusted you. A _Fayth_," the man said, meeting his eyes head on with his own, nearly electric blue ones. "And you are not a Summoner."

"You don't think anyone but a Summoner could do it?" Harry asked and shrugged, looking away before he would get tempted. The man's face when he was serious… and _blimey_, his hair was tempting. Harry probably was more curious than he ought to be about how the man's hair defied gravity. Was it gel or maybe some sort of device or… "Think what you will," he said, more to distract himself than to answer. "It makes no difference to me."

"A Fayth trusts you, a non Summoner, to defeat Sin…" the man murmured. "Do you think you can?"

"Let me get back to you on that after I've tried," Harry grinned at the man's reflection in the glass of the window.

"What powers you have, I wonder, to gain you such a trust…?" the blue haired man pondered. "What strength?"

Harry shook his head, smiling. Why did people get so hung up on that? So many people on Earth had too, in the years since Voldemort's death, asking him what special abilities he had, what kind of unique spells he knew, to grant him such a victory.

"It's not like that," he said, like he had to so many people before, and shrugged his shoulder. "It's not the power you have that matters - it's the strength that builds up to face the challenge ahead. The weakest man of the world can become the strongest, with enough motivation." He smiled and shook his head. "True power doesn't come to those who seek it - it comes to those who _need_ it. That's what I reckon anyway."

"Then, you think that to seek it is foolishness," the man said, now with hint of edge in his voice.

"Not necessarily. Everyone wants to become stronger - hell, I train every day to become stronger," Harry laughed. "And I probably will for a while longer. But power like, say, power to save someone or maybe the power to kill someone. That can't be _practiced_ for, or _accumulated_. It comes if it will, if the time and place and everything is just right. You can't command something like that."

"I think the power to kill someone is easily gained," the blue haired man murmured, looking up and through the glass of the window. Curious, Harry glanced up at him over his shoulder and, for a moment, he worried.

"People are easy to kill," he said finally, quietly. "So easy, in fact, that what's the point?"

The blue eyed and haired man frowned, and turned his eyes down to face him. "What's… the point?" he asked slowly. "It could be everything."

"In the end, it's nothing," Harry promised. "A week will go by, a month - and then you wonder what could've been, what opportunities there might've been. And you will wonder it for as long as you have a mind left to wonder."

The blue eyes narrowed slightly. "It sounds as if you speak from experience, knight."

"All death is the same. Be it natural causes or sacrifice or murder by your hands or another's. People always lose more than they gain," Harry said, and stood up. He was nearly head's worth shorter than the blue haired man - not to mention about the fact that the man's hair made him seem even taller, thanks to the gravity defying style.

The wizard didn't care though. While the man eyed him thoughtfully, Harry reached his hands up and then, grinning, ran them through the thick blue locks, and then right through the strange horns they seemed to form. His grin widened into surprised laugh as he realised that it was _natural_, the man's hair had no gel or any other substances in it whatsoever! Blue hair which, _naturally_, formed into the weirdest shapes he had ever seen!

Spira was really such an awesome place. Even the hair of the people of this world was just incredible.

His marvel over the man's hairstyle was cut short, as something impacted him to the side of his forehead, and then sharp pain split it's way down his skin, over his eyebrow and to his cheek. While the blue haired man quickly backed away, looking outraged, Harry blinked dully, more because of surprise than anything else.

"How dare you?" the blue haired man demanded, lifting his long nailed fingers and running his hands over his hair - which was already returning to its former shape. "You - how _dare_ -"

Harry blinked - and then, as blood trickled down to the corner of his mouth, he laughed with pure delight. The blue eyed man was _blushing_. "You are without doubt the most mesmerizing creature I've yet to encounter on this world," Harry pronounced, running hand over the wounded side of his face. His palm was completely covered in blood when he pulled it back. The wizard laughed again. He could bleed! He hadn't thought he could, honestly.

A night of great discoveries, indeed.

"You are _mad_," the blue haired man said, giving him a look that was somewhere between disgusted and begrudgingly fascinated.

"No doubt," Harry agreed, stepping forward. The other man looked, for a split of a moment, like he would've liked to back away. He didn't and instead lifted his chin slightly and faced Harry's eyes proudly, with hint of icy anger in them. It only made Harry grin wider.

"Fear not; I'll take my leave," the wizard said, amused as he snatched the man's long nailed hand up - the same that had scratched him, by the looks of the stained tips of the sharp nails. Grinning, he pressed a kiss to the man's long fingers. "You were delightful company, my most beautiful stranger," he said against the man's pale skin, and before the surprised man could pull his fingers back, he kissed the knuckles again, before pulling back. "Try and not kill anyone. There are so many more… _interesting_ things you could be doing."

The man didn't answer, only scowled at him while squeezing his hand into a loose fist. "The faith the Fayth have in you. I believe it is misplaced," he said, as Harry turned to leave as he had promised.

"That is your problem, not mine," Harry said, licking the blood from the corner of his mouth. He needed some bandages, probably. What a notion, a dead man needing bandages. "If you get the chance, watch me. I will prove you _so_ wrong."

With a chuckle, he turned away to head back towards the residential quarters. If he would ever see the man again, he would do more than run his hands through his hair - especially if the edge hidden behind the tempting beauty remained as sharp. Grinning, Harry wiped his hand over the fresh cuts again. They were _really_ bleeding, much like any head wound did. The man had really gauged him good.

But in the end, it was only worth anything if you sweated and bled for it. He had bled. Next time someone would _sweat_.

"What the hell happened to you?" Tar asked, when he entered the common rooms rented by the knights. "Did you run into a fiend?"

"Yes. A ferocious blue beast," Harry answered, and grinned again.

He had ridden in miserable icy weather for hours, he had enjoyed the most awesome bath ever, he had talked with a incredibly powerful ghost about all the things that mattered, and he had gotten mauled for a nearly innocent touch.

It was, hands down, his best day on Spira so far. He could 't wait to see the day that would top it.

x

The next day, Harry carefully fitted his helmet over his recently bandaged cheek. The cuts had actually been as deep as they had felt and he had been lucky not to loose an eye, according to Tar. The man had been a bit miffed when Harry hadn't wanted a healing, telling him he was wasting energy and time healing naturally, but he hadn't cared. Harry wanted the scars, and if the man applies any Cures or Curas into the cuts, he wouldn't.

"Whatever. Ruin yourself, see if I care," Tar had finally sighed, throwing his hands up in the air and marched away, while Harry had plastered the band aids on. It worked just as well for the wizard, and once he had an helmet on and the visor down, no one said another word about them. The helmet's padding pressed against them rather uncomfortably though.

The squadrons led by Adrak's lieutenants headed off first, with promises to meet at the Thunder Plains Travel Agency next. After Adrak had exchanged some words with Adept Giyal, the last squadron left the temple proper too and made their way to the stables to find their birds well rested and fed. Gearing them up didn't take long, and though Harry could feel that Sol was a little reluctant to leave the warmth of the stables in favour of the cold of outside, he did manage to steer her to follow the others out and across the icy bridge.

He spend a moment looking back at the magnificent temple, wondering about the blue haired man who had cut him. It was pretty unlikely he would get to see the man again, he knew. Worlds tended to be big places, and unless people had way to communicate at a distance, chance meetings were a bit rare, borderline impossible. It was nice to hope, though. The man had been very beautiful - he had fit the temple well. Maybe, if Harry would get the chance to visit the place again…

"Let's move out," Adrak said, and sighing Harry made to turn his eyes to the front, before seeing a flicker of shadow across the icy bridge, near the entrance of the temple. Shiva's Fayth stood there, along with the ghostly figure of a woman Harry had yet to meet. As Harry's eyes zeroed into the two of them, Shiva's Fayth elegantly made the hand gesture everyone seemed to like so much, and bowed her head.

"I wish you all the luck in this and another world," he could hear her voice singing in the icy air, with hint of what he had heard in the space in it. The simple, beautiful hymn. "Be strong, Sir Harry. Be valiant."

"I'll be bold and headstrong," Harry answered and with a grin. He eyed the other woman - who wore simpler, casual clothing - curiously for a moment, wondering if she was another Fayth, but as the dark haired woman said or did nothing, simply waved his hand in good bye. Then he turned Sol to follow the other knights out, and to the frosty air of the Macalania lake.

He could feel them watching him even as he left the cavern of the Macalania Temple behind, but ignored it.

The weather seemed even more miserable than before, after the warmth of the temple. The wind had picked up a little and the clouds above them were promising them some more snow to make the journey even less pleasant. The atmosphere between the knights turned sullen with the weather, and they trekked in silence, only the steps and the unhappy warbles from their birds making any noise in otherwise silent place.

Until they got attacked for the first time that day, of course, but even the fight and the easy victory over the fiends didn't lighten the mood much. While refitting his naginata into the holster he had on the saddle for it, Harry wondered about the fiends once more. They had already killed more than thirty while on the journey, but there seemed to be no shortage for it. What where they and where they came from - and why did they break apart to flickering lights when they were killed?

"Are fiends the same everywhere?" he asked from Metryn, who was just pulling the furred collar of his cape closer around his neck.

"Everywhere? Nah. They tend to change to fit the weather - like here, they're fortified against the cold. And they change to fit the prey too, so in Mi'ihen high road for example they're fast and so forth," the man answered, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "You can expect the nasty critters to be nasty everywhere."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, and then glanced at the others, wondering if he dared to ask. It could be one of those things that everyone knew and he would just make his ignorance known if he asked - but he was honestly curious. "Where do fiends come from?" he asked.

Metryn blinked and turned to face him, looking a little incredulous. "You don't _know_?"

"Of course I know," Harry answered smoothly, cursing himself mentally. "It's just… you know. I was just wondering if there's more to it. There's so many of them."

The elder knight shook his head, leaning back a little. "Too many dead, too many Pyreflies," he said, still looking at him oddly. "You know, the people who die and get Sent by a Summoner, that's a fraction of a percentage. I know the church makes it seem that most of them get Send, but it's a lie. Whole lot of people die out of reach, in places where people don't see - like here, for example. Who knows how many lives the tundra has taken - and after they die and no one Sends them, they get bitter and wander around and then become fiends. And attack us living."

Harry frowned slightly. Fiends were made from the spirits of the _dead_? He had thought that the Unsent in Spira - the dead who didn't move on, as it were - became like him. "I thought the Unsent…"

"Nah, that's just those who got real motivation - something larger than life. Most people, they just wander around in life aimlessly, and do the same in death," Metryn said, shaking his head. "They become fiends, we kill the fiends, the Pyreflies fly off and become fiends again. Rinse and repeat."

"And… that's it?" Harry asked. "It's always going to keep on happening?

"Unless someone Sends them, and there's not that many Summoners in the world - and those who are, they're either concentrated onto their pilgrimages or they give up their talents completely when they chicken out of their tasks," Metryn shook his head. "There's some Summoners who Send every Pyrefly they ever encounter, but there's too many of them, and more appears each day, so it probably won't ever stop. All you can do is keep fighting on, really."

"Hm," Harry murmured, frowning, wondering. Spira had a whole boatload of troubles with their dead, didn't it? And here he had thought that the ghost of Earth had it bad. What would happen to the dead of Spira when the time came for the planet to die? Especially if there was so goddamn many of them. "It's a pity no one but Summoners can Send," he said after a moment.

"Yeah, it is," Metryn agreed.

They kept on going and around the later afternoon after several battles that made not a little bit more sense to Harry, they passed by a construction site, where Adrak stopped to talk to the construction workers. While the chocobo knights took the chance to try and rub some warmth to their limbs, Harry looked back to the lake's direction. He still felt like the Fayth of the Macalania Temple were staring at him. Or that someone was. Maybe it was more fiends?

"Its going to be another Travel Agency," the Captain said, after returning. "Probably a good thing - on foot it's day's journey from here to the temple and people probably need to stock after Macalania woods."

"Does that mean we're almost at the woods?" one of the novices asked eagerly.

"Almost," Adrak nodded. "Let's go. We can camp in the forests - it will be warmer there."

Harry frowned at the icy plains once more before turning to follow the others. They rode on, until the icy terrain started to give away to a forest. The icy trees, sparkling in the light of the cloud-shaded sun didn't seem so remarkably beautiful after Macalania temple, but they were still a sight to behold. The trees were bigger and more complicated than in the forest north of Bevelle, forming bridges and walkways above the ground. As Adrak led them up those walkways, Harry realised that they were actually used as the main roads, rather than the ground.

"Pretty," he said out loud, as he saw a cluster of beautiful blue and red butterflies flickering about.

"Yeah. Be careful not to touch the red ones," Metryn said. "They attract fiends."

Harry shook his head. Fiends everywhere. What a world.

"You, know, I've been wondering," he started carefully after while, when in one crook of the strange branch road they passed by a sturdy looking chest. It wasn't the first he had seen in the woods - there had been one he had seen in the mountains too, but he had ignored that as someone having tried to lug it with them and then given up half way through the mountains. There had been so many of them now, though, that he had to ask. "What with the chests?"

Metryn gave him a strange look. "Haven't you seen them before? They're places for travellers to leave the things they don't need that others might be able to use. It's just common sense - and common courtesy."

"I haven't done that much travelling in Spira, I guess," Harry answered with a sheepish smile. Common sense and courtesy, huh? Even people of Spira were hospitable - on Earth those chest would've gotten stolen long time ago, never mind their insides.

They made their camp beneath some bridge-like branches that night, setting their tents wherever there was a little bit of straight ground. There was no fire set that night, aside from what they had in lanterns for light - apparently, the keepers of the forest didn't care for fire, and people preferred to stay on their good side.

Harry, who was put into the guard duty, enjoyed the night immensely regardless the lack of extra warmth. The forest was beautiful and the butterflies flickering about gave him something interesting to watch, even if the chocobos and keeping them quiet and content hadn't done it. Still, the thought of Pyreflies and fiends - and the blue haired man - intervened every now and then.

"This world's magic and the way people work is pretty complicated," he mused out loud, while stroking Adrak's chocobo's neck in effort to make the stout bird to settle down.

"Too complicated?" familiar voice asked from behind him, and glancing backwards, Harry saw the hooded boy there.

"Nothing wrong with that," the wizard assured, patting the chocobo again before turning to face the boy. "Have you been following me?" he asked. "Because I've have had this annoying feeling of someone staring at my neck all day. It's starting to freak me out a bit."

"No," the boy shook his head, giving him a look. "Maybe it is a fiend," he suggested before asking, "Wasn't things like this in your world? Was your magic different?"

Harry shrugged. "My world lived by a simpler method, at least as far as it came to life and death, but who knows if it was better. The efforts people went through in order to live after death, they weren't pretty."

"Did you?" the boy asked.

Sighing, Harry shook his head, crouching down beside the kid. "I lusted for life," he answered, leaning his elbows to his knees. "Too much to let go. I remained as a ghost, nothing but a mirage of what I used to be, a memory if even that. What I am now is just fraction of what I used to be - the rest of me went on." He shrugged his shoulders. He had no illusions of being whole - no ghost was. "It's funny how here it's backwards - it takes effort to go, rather than to stay."

"Yes," the boy agreed. "It makes this world strong. And weak."

Harry nodded, and looked towards the tents, where the other knights slept. "I know about Pyreflies now, and how fiends work. Tell me. Does Sin work that way too?" the high Summoner's sacrificed guardian became Sin, but… there was lot between a human sacrifice and great monstrosity. The overwhelming strength that terrified people, it had to be more than that.

"In… a manner of speaking. Like fiends and like the Aeons, the shell that is Sin is formed from Pyreflies," the boy answered, bowing his head a little. "That is part of the reason why it kills people - it gains strength from the Pyreflies people become, it regenerates like that. But it is only the shell, and it changes. The inside of it, that stays the same, even when it changes."

"The Aeons are formed from Pyreflies too?" Harry asked, frowning. It was like the whole world was full of necromancy - like it was _made_ from it.

"Yes. That is the power of the Fayth, of the Summoners - that is what summoning is. The Fayth give the shape and the form, but what makes it is the Pyreflies wandering this world. That is the essence of Aeons. That is why only Summoners can Send - because they have the power to command the Pyreflies."

Harry shook his head, looking away. It was all getting a bit twisted. He had thought that Aeons were actual creatures summoned from… somewhere. But they were more like transfigured souls? As was Sin - or it's shell anyway, whatever that meant.

Voldemort would've loved this place.

"You know what you people need? You need a legion of exorcists," Harry sighed, standing up and stretching his arms.

The boy turned to look at him. "E…xorcist? What is that?"

Harry chuckled. "A type of wizard - or a priest - my world had. Their job was essentially to Send dead spirits and souls to Afterlife - our version of Farplane. Especially so when those souls were causing trouble," he explained. "Pyreflies create fiends, Pyreflies form Sin, Pyreflies cause a whole lot of trouble… getting rid of them seems like the place to start, in the attempt of saving this world. You want to take someone down, attack their food supply. It definitely worked in Earth."

The boy was quiet for a moment. "Do you want the ability to Send?" he asked - and he almost sounded hopeful.

"Not, if it includes praying, or summoning," Harry laughed, shaking his head. "But it's a thought to consider. How does the ability to Send work, anyway?"

The ghostly boy considered it for a moment. "Summoners naturally attract Pyreflies, because of their connection and abilities," he said after a moment. "Sending essentially lures the Pyreflies to gather even more and then the Summoner charms them to do what they wish. The Summoner commands them to move on, and the charmed Pyreflies do as they are ordered, using the Summoner's power as a gateway…" He trailed away and then sighed. "It doesn't always work. People's will to hang onto life is strong. Some always escape."

Harry chuckled. Spira had more issues than the time magazine had had. "We got our work cut out for us, don't we?" he mused, stretching his arms again and then crossing his fingers behind his neck. "Good," he murmured. One wouldn't want things to be boring.

x

After a day or so spent wandering around the maze of Macalania woods, they made it to the Thunder Plains. It was, Harry decided, either his favourite or least favourite place in Spira so far. It didn't have the aesthetic beauty of Bevelle or Macalania's various parts, and seemed to be dark grey and murky everywhere… but it was so exciting. The dark area of the plains had seemingly eternal layer of thunder clouds over it and lightning struck nearly constantly - and, if you stood still a little too long, it struck you.

And wearing armour well, that only made things more interesting.

"Okay. We will cross over the plains as fast as we can. The lightning here is weak and won't kill you even if you get struck a dozen times in a row, but it will strain the chocobos, so try and avoid getting hit," Adrak said. "Now, we aim for the Travel Agency and we will do it as fast as possible. Let's move out."

And then they ran, with lightning dramatically flashing at all sides. Though the rain was awful and the place was fairly unpleasant to look at, the chance to shake off the stiffness build in Macalania wood's winding roads was definitely welcome. Even Sol seemed to brighten up, even though it took no longer than half an hour for the poor bird to get nearly soaked in the rain.

Even whilst squeezing all the speed out of their birds they possibly could, they still didn't avoid getting hit. Metryn was the first to get struck, and though judging by the way the man and his chocobo just shook it off, he had experienced it before. The novice who got hit next had a little harder time, especially since his chocobo nearly panicked. Then it seemed that the clouds had decided it was open season on Chocobo Knights, and it got easier to count who _hadn't_ gotten struck.

"Damn it," Harry hissed, the second time he got hit. It wasn't bad - he had gotten worse shocks in magic duels - but the way his armour rattled was a new and rather annoying thing. Sol, who ruffled her feathers and let out a irritated warks seemed to agree.

"Who gets hit the most will buy everyone drinks at the agency!" someone in the side decided, and the knights got a new motivation to avoid getting struck - no one wanted to be in charge of paying for some dozen knight's boozing.

By the time they made it to the travel agency, the only ones not struck were Tar and Adark, and everyone else had suffered stings from left and right. Harry himself had been struck some four times, and Sol did not seem too happy about it - she was starting to look like a bright, wet puffball, with her feathers standing up.

"Tend to your birds," Adrak ordered, as they made their way straight to the stables. "I'll settle our accommodations."

"Take some special care," Metryn added. "They're going to need some work before they can relax after all that - and they'll need their rest tonight. There's more to where that came from tomorrow, after all."

Harry took heed of the man's words, and spent good hour brushing and stroking Sol into better mood, before spreading a blanket over her back and leaving her to her dinner. When he entered the common rooms of the agency, the most of the other knights were already eating.

"We should reach Guadosalam around afternoon tomorrow, so we won't be staying the night," Adrak was saying, as he sat down. "We will take a couple of hours there, so that I can pay our respects to Maester Jyscal if he is present and that everyone can visit the Farplane, but that's the only time we can spare. I want to reach Moonflow before the night.

Harry blinked and glanced up. Visit… the Farplane? He glanced at the others, but no one seemed to think there was anything unusual about the sentence, so he hurriedly turned his attention to the food instead, even whole his mind raced. There was a way to visit the Farplane in this… Guadosalam place? The hell?

He needed a guidebook to this world, pronto.

x

After a night spent listening and counting the lightning strikes, the Chocobo Knights embarked once more, making haste again in order to avoid getting hit and, maybe, avoid getting too wet in the mean while. It was a more or less useless attempt, though, as the rain was persistent and somehow got inside their helmets and rained down the gapes between their armour plates, until the were soaked through.

"I'm almost getting used to being wet," Harry mused. "Maybe I can now pursue my lifelong dream of forever smelling like a wet dog."

"I'd say we're all more or less there already," another knight sighed, and they drudged on, wet and sullen, which the gloomy atmosphere of the Plains did little to alleviate. The only thing that made the journey seem worth it at all to the knights seemed to ray of hope in the distance, named Guadosalam.

Few hours into the riding, Harry even begun figuring out why. Not only did the Thunder Plains apparently end just before Guadosalam, but there was something very special in the place where the Guado lived.

"I was about five, I think, when he died," one of the novices said to another, with Harry listening over the conversation while pretending to be more interested in sullenly ahead. "He was a Crusader. There was some mission - I don't know what, though, it was all hushed up - where whole bunch of Crusaders died. There was a Sending ceremony, of course, but it was held in Bevelle and… well, they never recovered the body."

The man smiled dryly, shaking his head. "I guess I'm still kind of hoping that I won't see him, in the Farplane - but in the same time… I think it would help, if I did. Give me some closure."

"What will you do, if he isn't there?" the other novice asked quietly, leaning back in her saddle.

"I don't know, look for him, maybe? Probably not. Be pretty damn pissed off, most likely," the first novice answered, sighing. "Have you ever seen the Farplane?" he asked, glancing at Harry.

"Nope, never been below Bevelle - before now," Harry answered. "What's it like?"

"I've never been there either, but they say it's really beautiful. There's water falls and flowers and Pyreflies everywhere," the novice sighed. "They say it's peaceful. We'll see soon, I guess."

Tar, who had been listening to them from the side, snorted. "The Farplane's noisy, is all it is," he answered. "You know the noise Pyreflies make? Multiply that by a million and you get the Farplane." With a harrumph, he turned to the side and rode a little ahead.

"Don't mind him. He has had some bad experiences with the whole thing," Metryn said from the side. "Not that it's my business to tell, of course."

How anyone could get anything but bad experiences while visiting a version of Afterlife, Harry didn't know. Still, it was becoming a bit clearer. He still didn't know how, but apparently there was a entrance to Farplane in Guadosalam, where people could go and see their dead loved ones, or something like that. It seemed more than a little iffy to him, but then, the only entrance to Afterlife earth had was the Archway of Death, and he definitely had some bad experiences with that.

Shaking his head, he glanced over his shoulder, trying to once more see who the bloody hell was staring at him - but once more, there was no one and nothing there. Scowling slightly he turned to look ahead again. Maybe he was getting paranoid - though how could a dead man get paranoid was anyone's guess. The worst things of life had already happened to him, after all.

Like Adrak had estimated, they arrived at the end of Thunder Plains little past afternoon. At the entrance of Guadosalam, which looked interesting to say at least, like a mountain all made of roots, they were greeted by pair of Guado in wide-sleeved coats.

"Greetings," the captain of the Bevelle Knights called, dismounting his bird. He bowed his head and did the hand thing, which the Guado answered in kind. "And good day to you."

"Same to you and welcome to Guadosalam. I am Tromell Guado, servant of Maester Jyscal and keeper of the palace here, at Guadosalam," the green haired Guado in front greeted them. "Am I right in assuming you are Captain Adrak? Your lieutenants have been through here already."

"Yes, they're travelling a bit ahead, so that we don't descend upon anyone in too big a crowd," Adrak agreed, chuckling. "Is Lord Jyscal present?" he asked then, turning serious. "If he is, I would very much like to pay my respects to the Maester."

The green haired man nodded his head. "Yes, his Grace is presently at the palace," he assured, "Since we had a word of your arrival from your people, we have made ready for your arrival, Captain - if you would come this way, I can show where you can take your chocobos to rest and after that, you may meet with the Maester."

As the Chocobo Knights dismounted and followed the Guado through the cave-like entrance and into the forest-born city, Harry felt himself being stared at once more. This time, however, it wasn't by something invisible, but by the Guados, who glanced at his direction and then spoke in hushed tones to each other behind their palms. Harry looked back at them frowning. No, they weren't staring at the knights in general or anyone - they were definitely staring at him and him alone.

Harry wasn't the only one who noticed - couple of knights did too, as did Tromell. As the Guado keeper gave Harry a thoughtful glance, Harry frowned back, now starting to feel more than a little freaked out. What were they all staring at - did he have something in his face? After all the rain, it wouldn't have surprised him if he had, and he certainly had smelled better… but it wasn't like the other knights were in better shape.

It was especially bothersome since being stared at he couldn't really take the moment to enjoy the way Guadosalam looked - it was probably one of the more interesting places he had seen, and he barely noticed it because he was too busy trying not to feel uncomfortable as heck.

The Guado said nothing though and neither did the now curious looking knights, and soon the chocobos were taken into stables without a hitch. After Tromell's assurances of it being alright, Adrak gave the knights the permission to visit the Farplane if they wished it, before turning to follow the servant towards what Harry assumed was the palace.

"Captain, perhaps you would wish some of your soldiers to accompany you?" Tromell suggested, giving Harry a steady look. "Him, perhaps."

"Harry?" Adrak asked, and then frowned, giving Harry a look. Harry met it with some confusion, which only got worse when the Captain's expression darkened. "Alright. Harry, come with us."

"Sir," Harry answered with somewhat cautious nod, feeling like a eleven year old caught smuggling a dragon. Not entirely sure what was going on but figuring it couldn't be anything good - especially since the other knights suddenly were exchanging looks and some of the senior ones were frowning at the wizard - he followed behind the servant and his Captain. It was strange - and kind of exciting too, he mused and then smothered a grin while entertaining himself with the notion that the Guado wanted human sacrifices from people who crossed through their lands. Wouldn't _that_ be something?

They made their way to the middle of the wooden city that looked almost like it had simply grown out of the forest. There was a wooden staircase there - not cut and sawed and pieced together like normal ones, no, this one was made from living wood like the rest of the place. While following Tromell and Adrak up, Harry tugged a glove off and ran his fingers over the knotty handrail at the side of the staircase. It felt interesting - like branches and roots and life.

Inside, the Guadosalam palace was pretty much the same it was on the outside - living and growing as part of the tree it looked like from the outside. It was bigger than Harry had suspected, with enormous staircases and such, and wide entrance hall with beautiful crystal floor that seemed to glow.

"This way," Tromell said to Adrak, giving Harry yet another sideways look. They followed the Guado through the entrance hall and pass doors in the back into a what looked like throne room without a throne - some sort of reception area, perhaps? There were couple more Guados there, and one blue haired one who was wearing especially impressive set of wide sleeved robes with orange vest on top of them. Judging by the way Tromell immediately bowed at the man, Harry suspected the impressive looking Guado was Maester Jyscal.

"Milord, I present to you Captain Adrak of the Bevelle Chocobo Knights," Tromell said. "And," the servant looked at Harry. "The Unsent, Harry."

Harry raised his eyebrows at that, while Adrak took half a step to the side and gave him a sharp look. Now how had Tromel known that, the wizard wondered. Or actually it hadn't been just Tromel, he mused, recalling the way the other Guados had been looking at him too, even before Tromell had. Could all Guados do that? Why hadn't the one in Macalania Temple said anything? And why hadn't the Fayth warned him?

"Welcome, Captain Adrak," Jyscal said, turning to them and doing the hand gesture thing. "You and your knights are most welcome."

"You have my gratitude, and that of my men," Adrak nodded, bowing back and then looking at Harry again. "I apologise for Harry, however. I was not aware that he was an Unsent."

"That is quite alright," Jyscal said, nodding and stepping forward. "Unsent rarely mention such things."

Harry huffed, placing his hands to the armoured plates at his hips. "I still have ears, your Grace, and talking about people, even if they're dead, as if they're not present is very rude," he said, before looking at Adrak. "I'm sorry about fooling you, sir."

The man sighed, giving him a mild frown. "You've been dead all this time?" he asked.

"And a long, long while before it, sir," Harry shrugged. He had been dead probably before Adrak's ancestors had learned how to utilise sharp sticks. "It's not a big deal, really - there are worse things."

"And there are better things. Unsent should not wander the lands unchecked as they tend to do," Jyscal said, stepping in front of them, frowning. "The fact that you can, however, speaks of great conviction. The willpower required to maintain a humanoid shape is more than average person can manage. Remove your helmet, Unsent, I wish to see your face."

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry removed it, rubbing his hand over the bandages of his cheek to make sure they wouldn't slip off. "Sorry about the smell, my lord," he said, tugging the helmet under his arm and running the fingers of his free hand through his hair. "Leather, metal and armour oil mixed with the weather of Thunder Plains makes one heady mixture."

Adrak scoffed slightly, looking like he wanted to actually chuckle but was holding it back because of principle. "Why join my knights?" he asked, folding his arms.

"It seemed like a thing to do," Harry asked. "You were conveniently there, and motivated by the same things. I figured it would make things easier for me on the long run."

"Things? What things?"

"Unsent can only hold onto themselves through unfinished matters," Jyscal said thoughtfully, lifting his long fingered hand and running it over his blue beard. "Tasks left incomplete, missions failed. Your conviction is strong enough for your mimicry of life to realistically react to injury," the man mused, eying the bandage. "What is your mission, Unsent?"

"If you think that's what keeping me realistically solid, you're wrong. I hold onto life for life's sake," Harry answered, grinning. Fighting Sin was _nothing_ in comparison to feeling and sensing and experiencing, as motivations went.

"Explain yourself," the Maester demanded.

"Perhaps I can offer some explanation," a voice said somewhere behind Harry, making him frown as the feeling of being stared by invisible eyes intensified. While Jyscal jerked his head slightly, Harry glanced at Adrak, who seemed to not have heard the voice at all. Glancing over his shoulder, the wizard saw why.

It was the plainly clothed Fayth woman he had seen at Shiva's Fayth's side at the Macalania temple. "Sir Harry," she said, nodding her head to the wizard who raised a confused eyebrow at her,

"My lady," Harry answered, stepping aside to let the woman through while Adrak gave him a strange look. The wizaes didn't care though - too busy wondering what it was with Fayth's and appearing behind him. Bahamuth's Fayth, Shiva's Fayth, and now this one. All appeared directly behind him. It was like they were trying to unnerve him. This one even had succeeded in it.

"How is this…?" Jyscal stared, his voice wavering with surprise, before quickly snapping out of it. "Leave us," he said, waving hand at the other Guado in the room. The Guado seemed familiar with such orders, as they only bowed their heads and made their way out without word of complaint or as much as a strange look, Tromell following them and leaving Harry and Adrak alone with the Fayth and Maester Jyscal.

"What's going on?" the Captain of the Bevelle Knights asked.

"A Fayth made her presence known, sir," Harry answered to him, shrugging his shoulders. "Most people don't see them, or so I've heard."

"And you can see her?" the taller knight asked dubiously. Harry just shrugged his shoulders again, before looking between the Fayth woman and Jyscal curiously. They were making what could only be called googly eyes at each other - it was kind of weird.

"How can you be here?" the Maester finally asked, his voice quiet.

"My power differs slightly from that of the others, because my Aeon only had one Summoner - I have the power to follow," she answered, and gave Harry a look. "I have followed Seymour for several years now, but when Sir Harry came to Macalania Temple and had a discussion with Shiva's Fayth and…" she sighed and shook her head, turning to Jyscal once more. "Sir Harry is performing a task for the Fayth."

"Truly?" Jyscal asked, looking at Harry.

"I wouldn't say a task, my lord, lady - it's more a favour, really," Harry answered, shaking his head and wondering. Fayth who followed High Priest Seymour? Interesting. Pity he hadn't gotten the chance to meet the guy. "The Fayth did a bigger favour for me, asking me to do it, though," he added. "Seeing that I got a physical form out of it."

"What is the favour?" Jyscal asked intently, looking between Harry and the Fayth woman while Adrak looked at Harry, frowning more with confusion than anything else. "What do the Fayth want him to do?"

The woman hesitated, lifting a hand to rest on Jyscal's chest before looking at Harry over her shoulder. "Sir Harry will defeat Sin once and for all."

"Hey, all I promised was to try," Harry answered. "I haven't even seen the thing yet. I might not be able to do much."

"The Fayth disagree. We can feel your power," the woman said, turning to Jyscal again.

The Maester was scowling. "Him? An Unsent? Is he even a Summoner? _Was_ he ever a Summoner?"

"No. His powers lie in other things, things we do not understand, but we can feel. In knowledge and experience and strength that overcomes the boundaries of life and death, perhaps," the Fayth said, shaking her head. Then she smiled. "He has already done a favour for us, Jyscal. Because of him, Seymour has drastically altered his plans."

Jyscal drew a sharp breath - or what was sharp for a Guado, they were somewhat lethargic lot as far as Harry could tell. "He has?" the man asked, lifting his hand and closing it over the woman's transparent one. The Maester looked like he barely dared to hope and suddenly Harry felt pretty much how Adrak must've, hearing only part of a conversation. "For… for better?"

"It's still early, but I hope so," the woman nodded, smiling slightly. Then she shook her head and turned to Harry. "Sir Harry must be allowed to make his journey, where ever it will take him. His influence over people is great and I truly believe he will be able to defeat Sin. He cannot be stopped now, so early."

"If the Fayth wish it, then so be it," Jyscal nodded, giving Harry a thoughtful look. "You must hold within you something special, to earn the trust of the Fayth, Sir Harry."

"Just happy accident of being in the right place at the right time, sir," Harry sighed. It was Voldemort and the Boy Who Lived thing all over again. Not that he actually minded - he would've happily fought ten of Voldemorts, just to enjoy place as pretty as Spira. "So, no Sending for me, then?"

"From our part… no. You have an important mission to accomplish and the Guado will under no circumstances stand in your way," the Maester said, turning to the Fayth. "We however cannot grant our aid in this, not openly. Even if he was chosen by you, an Unsent is an Unsent."

The Fayth woman nodded, and turned to Harry. "I must return to Seymour now," she said. "I wish you well, Sir Harry. You shook Seymour's beliefs, for which I will be forever grateful. I did not think that it could be done, but you did. Hopefully, if you meet again, you can shake them even more."

Harry nodded, though he couldn't help but feel more than a little bit confused. As he and Jyscal watched how the Fayth faded away, he wondered when he had supposedly met this elusive Seymour. He didn't think he had, unless…

"Well, Sir Harry. For now you are welcome in my house - and I will inform the others not to bother you now or in the future, so as long as you keep on your chosen path," Jyscal said. "I am however serious of not being able to lend you our aid. This might change in the future, but the Guado's standing against the Unsent is firm. Or, as firm as the times permit."

"I think I can do without help, sir, for now," Harry said, wondering what _as firm as times permit_ was supposed to mean. Then he remembered the Captain of the Bevelle Knights, and glanced at the man guiltily.

Adrak was pinching the bridge of his nose, with a vein throbbing on his neck. He didn't look too happy - actually, he looked like he was fighting off a headache.

Harry grimaced slightly. "Uh unless I will be kicked out of the Knights. Then I might need a map or something," he amended awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. Without the Knights he would have no idea where to go. In that aspect, he was kind of lame saviour.

"Let's talk about that after you explain everything to me," Adrak said a little forcefully and lowered his hand. "Starting from the beginning."

"That might take a while, sir," the wizard answered. "Can we start from, say, a month ago? That will take a little less time to explain."

"Why a month ago?"

"Because that's roughly how long I've been an Unsent," Harry shrugged, crossing his hands behind his head and grinning sheepishly. Adrak faced his grin with a flat look for a long moment, before Jyscal cleared his throat.

"Captain Adrak, Sir Harry," he said, making the two armoured men turn to face him. "I too would like to hear the full story, unless you are in a hurry to move on. To this end, I invite you to join me for a late lunch. We can discuss everything over some food."

Adrak sighed and nodded. "Thank you for your invitation, Maester Jyscal. We humbly accept."

x

Little while later, they were seated at the end of a long dining table, with some vegetarian dishes spread out between them. Jyscal and Adrak were both staring at Harry, who was enjoying the food for the taste's sake. "I know, Unsent don't need to eat," he said, shrugging. "But Unsent can still taste things, and this is good."

"I'm glad you approve," Jyscal said, bridging his fingers over his plate. "However, you have a story to tell, Sir Harry."

"Alright, my lord," Harry sighed. Party poopers. "Let's start with the basics. You know that Spira is not the only planet in the universe, right?" he asked, to which Adrak frowned and Jyscal nodded. "Well, I'm not originally from Spira. The world I'm from was is called Earth - or was called, back when there were still people alive there to call it anything."

"You are… is this a joke?" Adrak asked sharply.

"No, sir," Harry snorted. "Though I suppose it could make a good one. Earth and whatnot doesn't really matter, really - just the fact that we had a bit different system with our dead. Your _Unsent_ were called ghosts on Earth and unlike your Unsent, ghosts were never physical, at the best of times they could have same effect as light breeze could on solid objects, but that was about it. That's why no one really cared much about them, so they were left alone and no one generally tried to _Send_ them. Ghosts were more like mirages or reflections than anything else, and those can't hurt anyone."

"Fascinating," Jyscal murmured.

"Confusing is what it is," Adrak answered. "If you're an Unsent of another world, is that what you're saying? If so then how are you here? It doesn't make sense."

Harry shrugged motioned at himself. "I was a ghost, sir, yes. And when my world died, I remained - along with thousands of other ghosts. It wasn't like the eternal winter that took Earth could hurt us, the way we were," he shook his head. "It just got incredibly boring, mind dulling. Nothing happened, and all there was snow and ice and little more snow to keep us company - along with each other, and that got boring after a while too."

"How did your world die, Sir Harry?" Jyscal asked, curiously.

"There was a war, and people used weapons that did some messed up things to the atmosphere - I think the world's axis shifted too, somewhere along the way, but I'm not sure," Harry waved a hand. "The world is still alive, though, but everything on the surface died - the winter lasted for too long for anything to survive."

"If this is all true, how did you get here? Why?" Adrak demanded to know.

Harry shrugged. "Earth got boring, like I said. So whole bunch of us ghosts got together and we decided to leave. Space is nothing to a thing that doesn't need to breath and doesn't need warmth and what not - so we just… floated away. It was a stupid idea, really - Earth had nothing on space as far as boring things go, I went mental after a while, but by that time it was too late to go back. So, I kept on floating, drifting away from earth."

"And you drifted here," Jyscal nodded, leaning back in his chair. "It must have taken a long time."

"Tens of thousands of years, probably. I slept through lot of it and space does have some cool things in it, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been - but it was still pretty bad," Harry shrugged. "I probably would've kept on floating on, if the Fayth of Bahamut hadn't caught me just above this world."

"And then he asked you to do a favour for him?" Adrak asked, folding his arms. "Why you? If you… ghosts really are the way you say they are, then what use could've you been?"

"I don't know why he asked me. I figured it was because I wasn't from Spira - maybe he thought if would give me an edge, I don't know," Harry answered. "Besides, just falling down to Spira made me an Unsent, gave me an body. Your world is very hospitable when it comes to dead people."

"The Pyreflies are powerful. They can give form to mere straying thoughts, if the thoughts are strong enough," Jyscal agreed. "It is as fortunate, as it is unfortunate."

Adrak hummed, eying Harry with a frown. "Why join the Knights?" he finally asked.

"It seemed useful, sir," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders once more. He was doing it a lot - but then, the sound his armour made when he did it was pretty cool. In annoying scratching metal sort of way. "I fell to the Calm Lands first and when I made it to the Calm Lands store and the salesperson told me about you guys… I figured it was worth checking it out. And with Sol, my chocobo, following me so happily, it seemed like fate."

The wizard grinned. "I stayed for the armour, though," he admitted, lifting his hands and grinning at his gauntlets. "I mean… a _knight_. You have no idea how cool this is for me."

The Captain of the Bevelle Knights harrumphed, but he looked a little less severe now. He smothered the amusement under a frown, eying Harry seriously. "What is the favour the Fayth asked of you?" he asked then.

"I thought that would be a bit obvious by now, sir. They want me to defeat Sin," Harry said, and then smiled crookedly at the way the other knight stared at him incredulously. "Yeah, I know, it seems like longest shot ever, and I'm not even Summoner or anything. But I did promise to try. And since you Chocobo Knights fight Sin, well. It seemed easiest to go with you guys."

"This is… ridiculous. An _Unsent_, from another world, fighting Sin… ludicrous," the Captain murmured, pushing his chair back and standing up so that he could pace along the length of the room. "What are the Fayth thinking?"

"Don't ask me," Harry shrugged. "Mind reading was never art I managed to master. I guess they feel a bit of what I used to be when I was alive, that might explain a thing or two," he mused. When Jyscal gave him a curious look, he shrugged his shoulder. "I was a wizard. Kind of like your mage, except I was born as one."

"That's where your magic comes from?" Adrak asked, turning to Harry. "I thought there was something strange about it. Your spells are… strange."

"They work," Harry answered calmly. "Not as well as they used to - the naginata I use has nothing on the focuses I used back on Earth - but they still work. That's enough for me."

Adrak hummed and continued pacing for a while, before stopping. "This explains a few things," he finally admitted. "There was something strange about things you didn't know. Fiends and temples and such. Your world doesn't have them, does it?"

"No, it didn't. Well, something like them, but not like you do," Harry agreed. "Fayth, Aeons, Pyreflies… all new stuff for me, sir."

The captain nodded, frowning. Then he glanced at a clock on a near by wall and sighed. "It's soon time for us to get going," he mused and frowned at Harry. "I want to speak to you in private before we join the other knights."

"So, I will be allowed to stay with them?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Maybe. I need to think this through and right now I cannot think anything straight," Adrak sighed and turned to Jyscal. "My lord, I thank you for your hospitality and for informing me about Harry's Unsent state. This has brought up a lot of questions for me, but I am better off knowing, than remaining in the dark."

"You are most welcome," the Maester nodded. "Before you go, however, I would wish to exchange a few words in private with Sir Harry. It has to do with a personal matter," he said, placing his eating utensils down. "If you do not mind, Captain."

Adrak hesitated before nodding. "As you wish, lord Maester. I will be waiting in the hall," he said, and bowed his head, doing the hand gesture. He sent another glance at Harry, before collecting his helmet and walking away.

"I've been curious about that, but I haven't been able to ask without giving my ignorance away. What is that thing people do when they bow, sir?" Harry asked, mimicking the weird gesture.

"It is the Prayer. It is a symbol of respect and unity, a way of people to show that they think themselves connected to others through the bonds born living in same circumstances," Jyscal explained. "Under the sky and under the threat of Sin, we're all united."

"I see," Harry mused, leaning back. "Okay, I'll keep that in mind. What did you want to talk to me about, my lord?"

The Maester was quiet for a moment, before leaning forward a bit. "She, the Fayth of before… she said you have affected Seymour's plans. I wish to know what you said to my son."

"Your son?" Harry asked frowning. Then his eyebrows lifted up, as he eyed the man's blue, branch like locks of hair. Blue. Just like the hair of the beautiful, ferocious man back in Macalania temple. "That was High Priest Seymour?" he asked with surprise and then, "He's your son?"

Jyscal nodded, frowning slightly. "You did not know?"

"There's little I can ask without sounding like a fool, sir," Harry shrugged awkwardly. "So I don't. I met a man with blue hair like yours, but I didn't realise he was a Guado. He didn't, I mean, aside from the hair, he looked like human. And I didn't know he was the High Priest, I thought he was a Summoner at first, seeing that he could see the Fayth I was talking with."

"Seymour is a Summoner, and yes, he is my son. The Fayth you saw before, she was my wife," Jyscal sighed, looking down for a moment. "Our union was my foolishly naïve and optimistic attempt to connect the Guado and the humans closer together, by siring a half blooded son. It did not turn that way. Seymour…"

Harry frowned as the man sighed. So. The beautiful man was not only High Priest Seymour, but a Maester's Son, and a Summoner - and his mother was a _Fayth_. And, what had the woman said, that her Aeon only had one Summoner? "Sir," the wizard said. "Could you start from the beginning? This doesn't seem like something I should get misconceptions of."

"Yes. Of course. The truth," Jyscal sighed, and covered his eyes with his hands for a moment. Then he started, "I married Seymour's mother, a human woman, not out of love, but foolish hope. It was soon after I had managed to bring my people to the faith of Yevon, managed to connect them to the wider Spira. I thought that as a son of both Guado and the Humans, Seymour would have unique perspective on both races and that one day he would take over my place as the Maester, and bring our people fully to light. As a race, we Guado are small and fading and hope of a better future… is something we desperately need."

The man sighed again. "Of course, it did not turn out that way. My choice to marry a human was never approved by my fellow Guado and Seymour's birth was not the happy event I wished it to be. Not only did my wife caught a terrible illness soon after the difficult labour, but Seymour was immediately cast out by the Guado and the Humans. He was called abomination, before he could even talk."

Harry frowned, folding his arms. Something must've changed, considering that the _abomination_ was now in charge of a temple with a Aeon in it, but he wasn't about to ask. It was always best to get a story in the proper order.

"In the end, before my son was more than few months old, I was forced to send him and my wife away for their protection, and to limit the strife among my people," the Maester sighed. "I sent them to the island of Baaj where they could live comfortably, but in solitude, until things changed. I had hoped that in time the relations between Guado and Human would warm enough to make people accept my wife and son, but…"

"But?" Harry asked, as the man trailed away.

"But my wife's illness got worse. The first word Seymour ever sent to me, that did not go through her hands, was his demand to take her to Zanarkand. She wished to go through the rites to become a Fayth of a Aeon, but by that time she was too weak to write the letter herself," Jyscal bowed his head. "I permitted it, and I sent several of the priests serving under me to assist them on their journey. Seymour was only a child back then, only twelve years old. I do not think he ever forgave me, for allowing them to go through it."

There was a moment of silence, during which Harry closed his eyes, savouring the tale. Damn, even Spira's family drama was so fascinating. "Do you know why she wanted to become a Fayth, sir?" he asked, trying to picture a young Seymour in his head.

"To continue being with Seymour, I imagine. Wishing that this way, Seymour could be accepted in this world, if not as a human or as a Guado, then as a Summoner," the Maester said, shaking his head. "It did not turn this way - though Seymour did become the Summoner of her Aeon, of Anima, he did not receive any pleasure from it. Despite my assurances that he had a place here, he took her statue, and returned Baaj where he lived in solitude for many more years."

The Guado man sighed. "So many mistakes happened there. A twelve year old with that power, that trauma - all alone where no one could see him and without no one to ease him through his mourning. I'm afraid Seymour grew… twisted, his views of Spira distorting with his experiences, his loneliness." Jyscal trailed away for a moment before continuing. "When I called him back and demanded that he ordained as a priest in Macalania temple, I think it was already too late. He had already made his dark plans."

Harry nodded slowly. He had glimpsed those plans, hadn't he? He frowned, thinking back to the beautiful blue haired man who had scratched him. There had been no fire in the man's eyes, only frosty determination. "Do you know what he planned?" the wizard asked. The Fayth had made it sound like she at least knew, but…

"I believe that for a while now, he has plotted my death," Jyscal admitted. "Should I die, Seymour would take my place as one of the Maesters - and then he would have all the power he needs to do whatever it is that he plans. I try not to imagine it usually, but you can see it in his eyes. He wishes nothing but death. For himself - and for everyone else. This, he thinks, will free Spira from the agony of Sin, and from the sorrow it sows behind it."

How gloomy. Harry rocked back in his chair thoughtfully. "Sounds like your son needs to learn to enjoy life, sir," he mused.

"Yes," Jyscal agreed, with a weak chuckle and looked up to him. "I had thought changing his plans at this point would be impossible. And yet… you did something. You said something to him."

Harry grinned, somewhat self-deprecatingly. "I have no idea, sir. We talked about the Fayth and about Sin and about power. I told him there's no fun in getting things handed to you, though I doubt that was it," he said, scratching the edge of his bandage. "He seemed like pretty frosty guy, until the end. I riled him up a bit, and he scratched me."

Jyscal's eyes widened slightly. "Seymour… _scratched_ you?" he asked incredulously. "What did you do?"

Harry laughed. "I wanted to see if his hair was natural," he shrugged, and swung his chair straight again, the legs of it impacting the crystalline floor with a bang. He grinned at the memory. "I don't think he was expecting that. I even managed to make him blush."

For a moment the Maester just stared at him, looking like he was between being outraged and amused. Finally he shook his head. "Seymour has always led a withdrawn life. I suspect after his mother, no one has had much cause to touch him," he mused, eying Harry thoughtfully. "Why would you ever… Seymour is, he has always been though a -"

"Abomination?" Harry asked, shaking his head. "Your son is the most beautiful creature I've seen this world. I told him as much. He thought I was mad." Chuckling, the wizard shook his head and stood up. "If I see him again, I will try rile him up again. Maybe I will be able to shake his plans a little more, who knows. But I can't promise anything. It's pretty unlikely we run into each other again."

"If you could… I would be grateful. Seymour has greatness in him, but it is smothered under his darkness," Jyscal said, standing up as well. "I think I now see what the Fayth see in you, Sir Harry. You are… different."

"That's a way of putting it, sir," Harry chuckled. "Does this mean I have your permission to… mess around with your son, my lord?" he asked, amused beyond belief. Getting a man's permission to seriously screw around with the man's son, that was something new. "I might be bad influence."

Jyscal chuckled tiredly. "I think Seymour has had all the bad influence one can has," he said. "Anything from here on can only be called an improvement. So yes. You have my permission."

Harry blinked with surprise, not having been too serious. Now, though, now it sounded like he had been just given Seymour's hand in marriage. "Whoa," he said softly and then grinned. "Thank you sir. If I get the chance, I will make the most of it," he said, and then bowed his head. "It was a pleasure meeting you, my lord."

"You too, Sir Harry. I wish you all the luck upon Spira in your task - in all your tasks," the Maester said, and performed the Prayer smoothly.

"Thanks," Harry nodded, before remembering something. "Before we go, though, there's something I want to know. There was a Guado at the Macalania temple, but he didn't seem to notice me at all. If he did, he certainly didn't say anything about it."

Jyscal smiled. "We Guado do have keen senses when it comes to Farplane, but they are not infallible. In presence of such power as that of a Fayth, our powers become overwhelmed. It is most likely what kept Seymour from recognising your existence."

Harry nodded slowly. So, in temples and near Fayths, he was, hm, unnoticeable as an Unsent? That was good to know.

"Now, come," the Maester said, motioning towards the door. "I will escort you out."

x

After they had said their goodbyes to Maester Jyscal, with Harry once more promising to do what he was supposedly tasked to do, and Jyscal assuring that no Guado would stand in his way, Adrak turned to lead Harry into a solitary corner of Guadosalam.

"Taking into the count what I've heard so far, what I've witnessed…" the captain started, sighing. "I have mixed feelings about this, but as you have a _Maester's_ approval, I can't but permit you to continue in the Knights."

"Sure you can, sir," Harry disagreed with a smile, just rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet as the man frowned at him. "I joined the knights out of whim," the wizard admitted. "Sure, I like the chocobo knights, I like the whole lot of you, and staying with you will be easier than going at this by myself. You know where to go while I have no idea, and you have information I haven't, so that's handy. But if you kick me out, I'll probably figure another way."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. He probably would get some help from the Guado - at least they would be able to point him to the right way. As Unsent, he didn't really need the comforts offered by the Knights either - he could go without eating and sleeping, so that would be fine. All he would really lose was all the cool gear. "So don't fight your morals on count of that," he said. "If you can't stomach seeing an Unsent on your troops, it's okay, sir. Just tell me to go, and I'll be off."

"So easy?" Adrak asked, sighing. "You are a strange man, Harry." Shaking his head, the captain stepped closer to the baluster that separated the walkway they were standing on from good twenty-foot drop to the lower levels of the wooden city.

"It is strange to think it now, but for all my life I have lived in the knowledge that Sin can only be defeated by a Summoner," the Captain said slowly. "Even when I joined the Bevelle knights, even when I took over as the Captain… I maintained that belief."

Harry frowned. That seemed a bit strange, considering that the Chocobo Knights were supposed to fight Sin. "So you don't think I can do it either," the wizard asked, crossing his hands behind his neck. "That's okay."

Adrak frowned, folding his arms and for a while saying nothing. "I have seen Sin seven times in my life - mostly passing, twice in hopeless battle me and my men escaped only by luck," he admitted. "It is bigger than I can comprehend. Bigger than any strength I could muster to fight it. One man… could never face such a force and win. Unless that one man was a Summoner, with the Final Aeon at his side."

The man turned to Harry. "You are not Summoner. So what makes you suitable to become the one chosen for this task?"

Harry's casual smile faded away, and for a moment he just looked into Adrak's eyes. The man was seriously asking it from him - not like Seymour had, with disbelief, not like Jyscal had, unable to even hope. The captain was asking it from the bottom of his heart.

"Suitable? Who knows. Maybe nothing. But… in my world, I lived to be hundred and twenty seven years old," the wizard said, looking away. In Spira he didn't look like it - he definitely didn't feel like it, with his new Pyrefly-born body being suitably fit and under thirty, but he had been old. "And after that I remained as a ghost for hundreds of years, before Earth slumbered away. It's a… long time to learn a trick or two."

"But not enough to save your world?" Adrak challenged.

Harry chuckled. "There was little point, in the end," he murmured, thinking back. The final years of humanity as he had known hadn't been pretty. Sure, he could've tried to offer them the means to survive, but by that time… well. The ones that would've accepted hadn't deserved it, and those that would've hadn't felt themselves deserving, not after all the devastation. In the end, humanity had faded away with whimpers, but it had gone away fairly peacefully, majority of it accepting it's fate.

Shaking his head, the wizard turned to look at Guadosalam. "Spira isn't like Earth, anyway. In a way, the people of my planet deserved what they got. Considering that Sin has been plaguing you for thousand years, I think it's save to bet that if there ever was a person responsible for it's existence…that person is long gone. Even if I hadn't already fallen in love with this world, that would make you easily worth saving."

"Sin is the embodiment of our crimes and greed, the punishment for our vanity," Adrak said. It sounded like a quote. "We are all responsible."

"If that's it, then why only thousand years? Sin should've been there since the dawn of your self-awareness, not just this small moment in time, if it was the embodiment of your sins," Harry shook his head.

"It came, when the machina wars got out of hand," Adrak said and made a thoughtful sound. "Much like in your world, in Spira there was time when the people had enough power to destroy this world. They nearly did - before Sin came, and destroyed all the machina cities as punishment for their greed."

Harry shrugged - though it was interesting. No one had yet to mention a war. "It doesn't really matter to me what you think - I've never believed in the concept of sins in any case," he said. If there was a war, and Sin had appeared in middle of it - or at the end of it… then maybe the monstrosity was a Spira's version of a doomsday device, someone's last desperate means to fight in the war. Doomsday device that had gotten out of hand.

Next time he saw Bahamut's Fayth, he would need to ask about that.

The captain eyed him for a moment. "You don't believe in Yevon," he said suddenly, making it sound like revelation.

"Faith and religion and whatnot, they've never been my thing," Harry agreed, and glanced at the man. "Is that a problem?"

Adrak scoffed, looking away. "Your very existence is a problem," he said. "A Unsent, non Summoner, someone not even from this world… defeat Sin? I can't wrap my head around it. It seems… utterly absurd." After a moment of tense silence, the Captain sighed. "But… if there is even the slightest chance that you could be the one to end Sin's circle of rebirths forever, the one to bring eternal Calm… it is not something I can ignore."

With a shake of his head, Adrak lifted his helmet and put it on, bringing the visor down. "You can remain within the Knights, and you have my aid. But know that I don't approve any of this."

"Yes, sir. I will remember that," Harry answered, and leaned back against the wooden baluster while the captain walked off, back straight and posture stiff. Shaking his head, Harry turned his gaze first to the ground and then to the wooden city around them. Adrak was a good man, stout in his believes. Even if it meant that the man loathed his very existence, Harry could respect that.

"I guess in this world I'm heathen of the worst sort," he mused, smiling slightly before turning to lean his elbows to the baluster and leaning forward for a better look. Guadosalam was a fascinating place. Before Adrak called the knights together for their departure, he would enjoy the sight of it.

x

Harry wasn't entirely sure what Adrak told the other knights about the way the Guado had reacted to Harry, but he must've said something since the strange and somewhat dark looks Harry had gotten before had evaporated. As they left the wooden city, Harry wondered about that, and about the Guado in general. It seemed that they all had the power to sense an Unsent - and that everyone knew it. Something to do with the entrance to the Farplane they had, maybe? It didn't really matter as such, but it was interesting.

"Harry, to the front with me," Adrak called from the front, as they mounted their chocobos in the crystalline clearing just beyond the southern entrance of Guadosalam. Frowning, Harry mounted Sol and hurried to the captain's side. "I haven't informed anyone of what I have found out," the Captain said, as they rode ahead and slightly out of the hearing range of everyone else.

"Thank you, sir," Harry nodded.

"There are some issues we need to address, however, before we join our brothers from Djose and Mi'ihen highroad," Adrak continued. "Namely, your ignorance about Spira. If you wish to blend in and not be discovered, you need to stop asking strange questions. Also, there is your magic. While effective, it is not the same as the magic used by the mages of this world, and thus will stand out to anyone who has little more experience with such matters."

"Alright," Harry said slowly. "You have point there, sir. But what can I do about that - there's no one among the knights to teach me the magic of Spira."

"No, there isn't," Adrak agreed. "Therefore, once we make it to Mi'ihen highroad, I suggest you take some time to visit Luca. The libraries there should give you some idea about how to proceed there. And until then, you will refrain from using magic, unless lives depend on it. In the mean while, I will do what I can to fill the holes in your understanding of Spira."

"That sounds like a plan," the wizard nodded, and leaned back a bit in his saddle. "So. What will we start with?"

"As it seems the main concern of your mission… let's start with Sin."

Had Harry known that lecturing was one of Adrak's many hidden talents, he would've declined the offer. What followed was indeed that, a lecture - if not an actual _preach_ - about Sin, and how the beast had supposedly came to be. There was lot said about arrogance of humans and how they had tried to defy nature's laws by their machine and how Sin was their punishment. If Harry hadn't known at least a little about the man, he would've thought that Adrak was intentionally trying to rot his head with the greed and vanity and arrogance talk as revenge for his Unsent-heathenish ways.

What followed, though, was more interesting. Harry knew a little about Yunalesca, but not all, for one he hadn't known about Zaon, her Guardian and husband, who had helped her defeat Sin - and became the Second Sin, most likely, though Adrak didn't know that. He also hadn't known about the way summoning had changed along the way, because in the beginning there hadn't been so many Fayths, or how the Pilgrimages of Summoners and the Yevonite religion had blended together, and how the temples originally had had nothing to do with the Yevonite religion but had been sort of mixed into it later on, and so forth.

How Adrak could believe in the Yevon religion even after specifically explaining how the thing had transformed along the years and more or less amalgamated bits and pieces of other religions to itself, Harry didn't know. It didn't really matter at this point either, and it wasn't Harry's job to tell people what to believe and what not to. All he had to do was listen and remember and figure the best ways to untangle the whole mess.

The more he heard about the Yevonite religion, the summoning and Sin, the more he realised that to defeat one, he would have to destroy it all. Summoning was integral part of Sin, and Yevonite religion revolved around them both, so, if he defeated Sin… everything else would most likely fall as well, like house of cards. It was still a bit early to think that, he still haven't even seen Sin after all, but still.

The whole mess was bigger than he had originally assumed. Not just a monster, but religion and art of magic and believes of entire societies and way of life for millions of people. And he had to tackle it all.

What fun.

As Adrak moved onto explain more about the Yevonites and about the temples and whatnot, they soon arrived at Moonflow, which turned out to be a large, slowly drifting river. It was yet another of those beautiful Spira things, Harry also found, as they stopped at the river bank to rest for a moment. The entire river was covered by beautiful purple lilies - Moonlilies, apparently - and above them flickered dozens of Pyreflies.

"We'll be following the river thorough the evening and until the night, so we'll be seeing the Pyreflies gather," Adrak said, while giving his bird a light brushing. "They do it every night - especially so during full moon."

"It's pretty," Harry answered with a sigh and a smile, crouching down at the water's edge and soaking his fingers in the water. It was warm. "Your entire world is so pretty. Aside from the Thunder Plains, I have yet to see an average looking spot in this place. Or an ugly one."

"I'm glad you appreciate it," the Captain answered with a frown. "You really like this world, don't you?"

"I do," Harry agreed. "Spira's been incredibly hospitable. And it is beautiful," he said, reaching out and snapping the stem of one of the lilies, drawing the flower into his hand. "Plus, after who knows how long in space… it's nice to just experience things again. Spira gave me that, and I'm never going to forget it."

The captain hummed slightly before putting his brush away. "I suppose there's something in that, that makes you suitable," he mused. "We people of Spira appreciate our world. But, deep inside… I think we all also hate it. Our love, for as long as Sin remains, will never be unconditional or untainted by sorrow."

Harry shrugged. "Can't blame you for that. Living in constant fear would make it hard for me too. Being Unsent eases the strain somewhat, I suppose," he said and stood up. Grinning, he attached the Moonlily to the chest of his armour. It smelled wonderful. "Though I suppose that's not a state of existence people would wish to share."

"Indeed," Adrak mused and glanced at the other knights, who were tending to their birds a little further away. "Five minutes, and then we'll move out. We'll be camping at the crossing, and I want to make it there before sundown," he called to the knights, who answered in affirmative before turning to quickly finish their tasks.

"In your world, what did you do? There was no Sin to fight there, so I imagine life was… easier," Adrak assumed.

"In a way yes, in a way no. The thing about great monsters like Sin is that they unite people - everyone shares the same opponent so everyone has something in common, something important," Harry said and sighed. "Earth didn't have that, so people were always fractured. Into nations and sets of beliefs and whatnot. And always there was someone out there trying to exploit this and that flaw in the system - or just simply exploit those around them."

Shaking his head he turned to Sol who was finished eating her greens, and mounted the bird. "I was a law enforcement officer for about twenty years, politician for another thirty, and then I became a trainer, a teacher," he said. "And then I became a bartender. It was all bit convoluted really."

"A… bartender," Adrak asked slowly.

"Yes. Best way to retire really, tending a bar," Harry grinned. "What about you? What made you join the chocobo knights?"

Adrak frowned, before lifting himself up to his chocobo's saddle. "Hopelessness," he answered after a moment. "My wife died on the Calm Lands, attacked by fiends. The Crusaders stationed there delivered the word of her death to me, but never managed to retrieve her remains for burial or Sending. I… wanted to ensure it would never happen to anyone else."

The man shook his head. "I thought of joining the Crusaders first. At that time the Bevelle Chocobo Knights were a small organisation, they only had twenty members and their duties among the knights were light - most had jobs and being part of the knights was more of a hobby for them, for the few chocobo enthusiasts in Bevelle. The Crusaders on other hand were two thousand strong and ever growing, not to mention that they functioned under and with the church's funding."

"What made you join the Knights instead?"

Adrak smiled, snorting softly. "Cowardice," he admitted. "Crusaders are a… busy organisation. They travel and they fight Sin - and they do it often. I wanted to help people, but to be honest… I did not want to fight Sin. Bevelle Chocobo knights on other hand only patrolled the Calm Lands, and that was about all they did at the time. That was what I wanted."

Harry raised his eyebrows. After having seen the man in battle and heard his speeches about Sin… it was hard to believe that the man had joined the knights out of cowardice. Especially since it was apparently Adrak's doing that the Bevelle Knights were so strong now. "I guess something changed."

"Hm. I saw the potential in the Chocobo knights," Adrak agreed. "I met with Metryn, and Tar - the oldest members of the knights. They had so many great plans, for armour and gear, and for manoeuvres that took the advantage of a chocobo's speed, strength and agility. I wanted to see them come into fruition. When the previous captain retired due to age, and I was voted to take over, I did my best to see my Chocobo Knights achieve that efficiency. And they did."

Together they watched as the other knights mounted. They were, even after all the time spent among them, impressive sight to Harry. Armoured and sturdy, moving into easy formation immediately. The formation training shone through in every efficient move, as did the training to take all the benefit out of their gear. With shields and lances and spears shining in sunlight, they looked like a force to be reckoned with.

"You said you've seen Sin before. What was it like?" Harry asked thoughtfully, wondering how they fared against it.

"The couple of times I've fought Sin was utterly hopeless, like fighting a mountain. Mostly we fought against Sin spawns than the beast, but fighting Sin is always about fighting the things it leaves behind. Only Summoners can fight Sin itself," Adrak said. "Thinking back to those desperate battles… this operation will be the first time we will be truly fighting it."

Harry nodded, and then watched thoughtfully while Adrak ordered the knights to move out.

That night they spend in the banks of the Moonflow river, watching how the Pyreflies gathered. It was beautiful sight, the whole river seemed to shine and glimmer with the light of the ethereal fires, and watching it Harry could almost forget that he was essentially watching lost souls.

While the other knights made a fire and dined, he stepped to the edge of water, wondering why no one had ever performed a Sending there. With singe glance he could see some half-hundred Pyreflies, and he was seeing, what, a fraction of a percentage of the river's entire length? How many Pyreflies were there dancing there, hundreds, thousands?

"This world seriously needs some exorcists," he mused, sitting down to the shoreline and throwing a rock into the water. Only the water was disturbed - the pyreflies didn't even seem to notice.

"Will you become one?" a familiar voice asked, and sighing Harry stopped himself from glancing behind his shoulder. If the Fayth insisted appearing where he couldn't see the boy, then the boy could just enjoy not having eye contact.

"Maybe later. Right now I still have things to figure out," the wizard answered. "Tell me about Sin and Yevon. It all ties together somehow, doesn't it?"

The boy was quiet for a moment, before saying, "Yevon is the power that recreates Sin," he said after a moment. "You know of the war between Bevelle and Zanarkand, correct?"

"I heard there was a war, but that's it," Harry answered, frowning. "I didn't know it was between those two."

"It was. The arts of summoning came from Zanarkand originally, while Bevelle was known for it's machina," the Fayth said. "They were both powerful, and wanted to become even more so. Who knows which side started the war, or what was the original spark, but it raged on ferociously."

The boy shifted closer, and stepped on top of the water. Harry glanced at him curiously, as the boy reached out his transparent hand to touch the Pyreflies. "The war was brutal, but though Zanarkand fought with all it had, Bevelle's machine had advantages Zanarkand lacked. So, Zanarkand eventually begun loosing and the city's destruction was imminent. It was then that Zanarkand's leader, Yu Yevon, came up with the desperate final plan, and created Sin."

Harry frowned. "And Yu Yevon was a man?" he asked.

"A man, a mage, a powerful Summoner. A desperate warrior, fighting a loosing war. He used the surviving people of Zanarkand to craft an armour for himself, and that armour is Sin," the Fayth said quietly. "But he could not control it, and the weapon he had poised at Bevelle attacked Zanarkand instead."

"Oh, yikes," Harry muttered. Talk about falling on your own sword.

"We Fayth could not let the city go afterwards, and so we begun to dream of Zanarkand as we remember it. In the mean while, Yu Yevon's daughter, Yunalesca, took upon herself to defeat the monster her father had created. She did it, at the cost of the life of her husband, Zaon, and herself. The original Sin was destroyed by the mighty Aeon Zaon became, but the power of Yu Yevon's creation was relentless - power of Yu Yevon's own desire to remain was overwhelming. And so it took the first Final Aeon, and so the Second Sin was created."

"And it goes on and on from there. Yunalesca is a Unsent, I suppose?" Harry asked, recalling what Shiva's Fayth had told him.

"That she is. She creates the Final Aeon, the Aeon and Sin fight, and the Aeon becomes Sin after it's victory," the Fayth sighed. "And in the mean while we Fayth dream and dream and dream."

Harry nodded, wondering. "You said that this world was plagued by a dream," he said, thinking back. "Was that the dream you were talking about, you dreaming of Zanarkand?"

"That, and Yu Yevon's dream too. Only his is now a nightmare, and he can't see beyond it," the Fayth shook his head. "We hold onto our Zanarkand, because it is all we can do. It distracts us and Sin draws power from it. It is a vicious circle."

"Hm. I guess," Harry answered, and shook his head. "How does the Yevonite religion fit in all this?" he asked. "If Yu Yevon is Sin…"

"It was Bevelle's attempt to appease Yu Yevon. It grew beyond it in time, and now it is a machina onto itself, unable to cease functioning. Much like Sin." The Fayth stepped back to the shore, shaking his head. "You were discovered," he said suddenly.

"Yeah, apparently Guado can sense these things - which is something I would've liked to know before hand," Harry answered, giving him a look.

"I'm sorry. We thought we had succeeded in hiding you, but the power of the Guado is greatest in Guadosalam - they, like Summoners, can draw strength from Farplane and Pyreflies, and Guadosalam is connected to them intimately," the Fayth said. "We will take… further steps."

"Like what?" Harry asked, frowning.

"There are ways through which we can intensify your life, and mask your death," the Fayth admitted. "We would make you… alive again, but we do not have that kind of power."

"Probably better you don't, being dead gives me a bit of an advantage," Harry shook his head and stood up. "If you can mask me, I'd appreciate it. It could've been worse than it was, being discovered, but I'd prefer it didn't happen again. Also, if you can do something about the whole Sending thing, I'd appreciate that too."

"We'll do what we can," the Fayth promised. "Sleep tonight. It will make it easier for us."

Harry nodded and watched as the Fayth faded away. He then cast a last look at the glowing Moonflow, before turning to head back to the camp.

"Good talk?" Adrak asked as he approached the man.

"Illuminating, sir. I'll try to be more inconspicuous next time," Harry answered. "I need to get some sleep. Do you need me for anything?"

Adrak shook his head and motioned at his own tent. "Go," he said, and little awkwardly Harry did. Behind him he could heat Metryn and Tar asking something from Adrak - most likely what was going on. Adrak was giving him some special treatment, Harry knew, and after Guadosalam people couldn't help but notice, regardless of what the Captain had said to them.

Well, he'd let Adrak handle it now, he mused while starting to loosen the straps of his armour. He would probably be cornered about it eventually, but right now… he had some Zs to catch.

x

"Okay. This is interesting," Harry murmured, after finding himself staring at a magnificent technological city that put the enormous muggle cities of Earth in shame. Sleep black metal and glowing lights - and water just about everywhere, raining down like waterfalls from the buildings, and floating in the air, defying gravity. Here and there, it even formed the walkways and held the buildings up.

"This is Zanarkand," the boy Fayth's voice spoke from behind him, making Harry sigh with slight irritation. "As we remember it, in any case, but we've held onto our memories as well as we have been able to."

"It was incredible," Harry said, crossing his fingers behind his head and then noticing that he was wearing his gauntlets. Glancing down he saw that he was in full armour. Interesting. "So, is this my dream or is this your dream or are we somewhere in between?"

"This is our dream. We brought you here because it will make things easier. And I wanted you to see _him_."

Harry frowned slightly and then turned around, to see that he wasn't standing on a bridge of some sort after all, but that he was actually on a boat - and he wasn't alone. There was a crowd of people there, mostly teenage girls and kids, who were chattering amongst themselves, giggling. Just about all of them were holding strange balls of blue and white in their hands.

"Him?" Harry asked after a moment, glancing down at the Fayth. No one there stood out, exactly.

"Him," the Fayth nodded ahead. Looking up again, Harry saw a blonde young man coming across the ship's deck, approaching the crowd. "He is the son of Jetch, who is the current Sin."

Harry nodded slowly, tilting his head a little to the side and glancing the boy from head to toe. What a getup. "Wait," he said. "The current Sin, you mean, the Guardian of High Summoner Braska? But I thought this was a _dream_."

The Fayth sighed, shaking his head. "We tried," he said. "Jetch was the hero of this dream Zanarkand. He was strong and proud and… different. We thought… we hoped that he could be the one to end the spiral. So we brought him out of the dream, and into Spira…" The boy shook his head. "But he failed, and everything happened the way it always did."

"And you think this kid will have a better chance?" Harry asked, thoughtfully. "What makes him special?"

"Like Jetch, he is a hero. And as such, he is the best formed individual of the dream," the Fayth admitted. "He has strength the other dreams here lack, because we Fayth all love him the most. Like we did with Jetch."

"Ah, right. You've paid more attention to him, so he's more rounded than the rest," Harry mused, glancing at the other people on the deck. They were kind of… bland feeling, in comparison to the boy. Forgettable and faint, while the kid was strong and bright. "So, if I fail, it's up to this kid, huh?"

"Or vice versa," the Fayth agreed.

Harry hummed thoughtfully and lowered his hands. "This is a dream, right?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And you create it - you can change it and transform it, right? I mean, you have to, if you brought the current Sin out of it…"

The Fayth frowned. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't know, exactly," Harry admitted, stroking his fingers over his chin - the only part of his face that was in view, thanks to the visor of his helmet. "But if I were you, I would buff that kid to high heavens. If I fail, he's the one who has to do it. And if Sin is as bad of a bastard I think he is, the kid's gonna need all the help he can get him. So, dream up some advantages to him, give him weapons, knowledge, power. Anything."

The Fayth frowned. "You have no such advantages."

Harry snorted. "That's what you think. I haven't really needed to do anything yet, so haven't. But really, I can create all the advantages I need - I am a wizard, you know, and we bend reality," he said, shaking his head. "I suppose the kid has to have something special in him, since you're choosing him over the rest, but little bit of extra wouldn't hurt, I bet."

The ghostly boy looked away, and towards their chosen dream, while the dream stepped forward and chattered among the people on the deck. To Harry it looked a little like they were his fans or something - which, judging by the sight of him signing the balls, was probably the truth. A sports hero, maybe?

"Teach us how to blitz!" a group of the dream kids demanded, making the blond hero scratch his neck awkwardly.

"Hey, I got a game to play," he said, to which the kids demanded he taught them afterwards. "Uh, tonight. Well…"

"You can't tonight," the Fayth interrupted, making the blonde glance backwards at him and Harry. The teen frowned at them, and then turned back to the kids, as if seeing a slightly transparent boy and a knight on the deck of a ship in a highly technological city was nothing out of norm.

"Tomorrow then," the blond promised to the kids, who thanked him by performing the Prayer on him.

"You dream strange dreams," Harry noted, a little amused by the way the blonde scratched the back of his neck again, looking sheepish.

The Fayth nodded. "Advantages," he murmured thoughtfully. "Like what?"

"Something that would be, I don't know, advantageous?" Harry asked, snorting. "Especially against Sin."

The boy frowned and looked away. "Something that is advantageous against Sin. But we do not wish him to become a… Summoner," he said, sounding almost sullen. "Summoners fail and die and the spiral continues."

Harry shrugged. "Then don't. There are other powers," he said, and then grinned as a thought came to him. "Make him an exorcist," he suggested, folding his arms. "Or something like that. That way maybe he can make a bit of a dent on Sin's forces, and make sure any fiends he encounters wont just reassemble themselves."

The Fayth blinked and looked up to him. "You really think that would be useful?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Don't you? The fact that there's Pyreflies everywhere for anyone to grab is pretty much what powers this whole mess. If you can get rid of those, there won't be any fiends and Sin will be weaker," Harry answered. "Sure, I guess that would affect Summoners too, and of course, one man can't exactly do it all, but you already said that Summoners can't do the trick and everything has to start somewhere. So. Try an exorcist. What do you have to lose?"

There was a moment of quiet at the Fayth thought it through. "Maybe," he said finally.

Harry nodded, satisfied. "And whatever you do, don't leave him in the dark about what he's supposed to do," he added, sharply, thinking back to his own years as a boy-hero. Dumbledore had kept him in the dark for _years_ and it had only gotten people killed. "He'll have much better chances if he knows what to do, trust me. Especially if he knows more than just what he has to do."

The boy beside him shifted uncomfortably. "We cannot be upfront," he said. "His existence relies partly on his own belief of himself - if he knew -"

"Then don't tell him that, but tell him everything else. Voice of experience talking here," Harry said. "The more he knows, the better for everyone. Ignorance is _not_ bliss when the world depends on him knowing what to do."

The Fayth dibbed his head a bit but not in agreement. After a moment the boy turned to look at the teenage hero again, who was now heading off, apparently to go to his game. "It's time," the Fayth said, turning to Harry. "We will alter you now, then we must attend to Tidus. He will be arriving at Spira tonight, and we need to concentrate onto that."

"Tidus, huh," Harry murmured and nodded. He'd remember that name. "Alright. Let's get to it."

x

Harry felt a little bit strange when he woke up. It took him a moment to realise why. Lifting his hand up, he eyed his fingers thoughtfully, spreading them wide. They felt different. His whole body felt different. It felt… more solid. Meaty, in a way.

"Hm," he grunted, and shimmied his fingers past the collar of his leather jacket and to his throat, searching for his pulse. He found it soon enough, beating heavily and just tiniest bit erratically. He had had it before, he knew, he had even had blood and everything, he had been able to bleed. But it had all seemed so automated, following a simple pattern. Now… it was more chaotic, hesitating just slightly when he breathed in deep - and that was interesting too, because breathing felt a bit different. Deeper.

Shifting into a seated position, he ran his fingers over his face and smiled. His skin had felt oddly smooth before, even with the bandages. Now he could feel slightest imperfections, early indents that one day could become wrinkles, the slightly rough feel of his pores. It was like someone had added the finishing touches to him.

The Fayth had done as they had promised. He could feel it, though he was still very much dead, the mimicry of life was… more thorough now.

Swinging himself up from his bedroll, Harry glanced at still sleeping Captain, before quickly collecting his armour as quietly as he could and sneaking out of the tent. The knight in guard glanced at him and said nothing, as Harry made his way to the shore line of the Moonflow, leaving his armour to a rock near boy. He wanted to jump into the water, and take some good strokes among the lilies to enjoy the new details of his body, but he knew there wouldn't be time for that - any moment now the others would start getting up and ready to move out.

Well, it didn't matter. Soaking his hands in the water up to his elbows, and then dunking his head under the surface was almost good as. And it felt _great._ He hadn't realised it before, but before his sense of feeling had been a bit off here and there - but now he could feel the water soaking his hair all the way to his scalp, and how it trickled down the lines of his ears when he pulled up again.

It was magnificent - and Moonflow was blessedly cold.

"Didn't think that Unsents needed baths," a familiar gruff voice noted, steps approaching Harry who looked over his shoulder. It was Tar, who like him had yet to put his armour back on. Feeling still a little euphoric with the heightened sense of feeling, it took Harry a moment to catch up with what the other knight had said.

Tar snorted as Harry gave him a worried look. "I'm no fool," he snapped, crouching down beside the wizard. "With the way the Guado were all glaring at you, it could only be so many things - either you had insulted them horribly and maybe burned half of their forest down, or you were an Unsent - and with you staring the place like someone had struck you on the head, I figured it was the latter."

"Ah. Well. I suppose, when put that way… " Harry trailed away, pushing his wet hair back and away from his forehead. As his thumb grazed the line of the bandage, he realised with a grimace that he probably should've undressed it before dunking his head - it was soaked through. "So, what are you going to do?" he asked while starting to peel the sodden bandage off.

"Do? About you being Unsent? Not a damn thing, I suppose. Adrak obviously knows, with the way he's been hovering over you. And since Maester Jyscal let you walk out there without Sending, I suppose there's a purpose for it," Tar answered, making a cup of his hands and lifting some water to his face. After washing for a moment, he wiped the water away and stood up again. "All I want to know is if you're going to be a hindrance or an asset."

The wizard eyed the armourer for a moment before humming thoughtfully. "I'd like to be the latter, but I need to keep it all quiet. I have stuff to do and letting people know what I am might hinder that - and I really wouldn't want to be Sent, just yet. I have a bit of immersion problem though. It's been a while since I was alive," he admitted. "Adrak's told me I'll be going to Luca to learn some magic once we make it to Mi'ihen. After that, hopefully I'll be more of use than I'm now."

"Hm," Tar grunted and nodded. "I'll talk with him, see what he's got in mind, what I can smooth his plans along the edges. He tends to think straight as a sword, that man, and that's not always good enough," he mused. "Metryn suspects too, by the way. And the rest are stupid if they don't suspect _something_."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry promised and watched how the elder knight gathered his armour and headed off. After a moment the wizard sighed, rubbing his wounded cheek. So much for keeping things secret, he mused. Then he shook his head, and dunked his head under the water one more time, just before he could.

After washing and enjoying the new details of his body as well as he could without becoming completely indecent, Harry spent some minutes pulling on the plates of his armour, before making his way to camp again. However after seeing Adrak, Metryn and Tar deep in hushed conversation a little further away - and the way they all glanced at him when he arrived - he decided to go the other way instead. Whatever Adrak and the others were talking about would probably go better without him there, making things more complicated than they had to be - and right then, he wasn't feeling like getting into the conversation of _how could an Unsent do anything, when he wasn't even a Summoner_. The day was too nice to ruin it with that.

So, pushing his wet hair back an away from his face, he made his way to the chocobo pen that the knights had set up in the previous evening. Sol kwehed happily at the sight of him and while the other nights begun coming out of the tents and getting about making some breakfast, he tended to first his own chocobo - and then to the others, who came closer at the sight of Sol getting brushed. He was almost done with just about all of them, when the knight in charge of cooking that morning called the others to eat.

In the end, neither Meryn nor Tar said anything about his Unsent state, even if Harry was perfectly certain that Adrak had told them the whole deal. Whether the man had told the defeat-Sin part he didn't know, but he had definitely said something meaningful, because both of the armourer and the chocobo specialist acted no different than before. Tar even went about checking his armour as if he hadn't been getting it right for days now, and Metryn nodded approvingly after seeing the chocobos.

What it meant, Harry wasn't sure, but he took it as a good sign.

"We'll cross the Moonflow just mile north of here," Adrak told them all, after the breakfast had been eaten and the tents had been packed. "After that it will be couple of hours ride until Djose - but we will most likely just past the Djose Temple on our way to the Mushroom Rock. After that, it's the highroad, so we won't be stopping for anything unnecessary. It'll be a long ride, of course, and Mushroom Rock is always tricky terrain to cross, but unless we run into trouble, we will make it to Mi'ihen Highroad just before midnight."

He eyed them all, waiting for questions and objections and when none was voiced, he nodded. "Let's mount then. The sooner we get onto the road, the sooner we will arrive."

Crossing the Moonflow was a quick, wet affair - even on Chocobo's back the water reached Harry to mid thigh and after the minutes spent going from one shore to the other, it felt like he had all the water and slime of the river in his boots. Sol seemed to agree with his dismay and spent the next ten minutes of riding trying to ruffle her feathers and flap her wings to get the water out.

After that, though, the journey was more than pleasant. The shore of Moonflow was very beautiful and fragrant, with flowers growing all over the place - and they spent good hour following the river southwards before Adrak led them off the road and to rather thin path through the forests. The forests them selves didn't last for long, before giving away for more rocky terrain where only grass grew abundantly.

"What is that?" Harry asked after some time of riding, peering up ahead. There was a sort of mountain or very rocky hill up ahead, and for a moment it had looked like there was light coming out of it. Sort of sparkling light.

"That'll be the light of the Djose Temple. It'll get clearer when get closer to it," Metryn said, for the first time in a long while not giving him a strange look for asking. Instead the man looked at the other novices. "Chocobos tend to get a bit nervous about the noise the temple makes, so keep a good grip on your reigns, all of you. Stay calm and your birds will follow your lead."

It soon came clear why a noise from a temple would make a bird worried. As they came to the actual road, which soon became cluster of bridges that crossed over the water of what Harry first thought was a fractured lake, but turned out to be shoreline of the sea instead. "Eastern sea, to be exact," Metryn said. "It doesn't look like much, but in the Mushroom Rock Bay it's pretty impressive sight."

"I see," the wizard answered, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully and giving the man a thoughtful look. He wasn't only not looking at Harry weirdly, but he was explaining things before the wizard got the chance to ask. But there was somehow a weird distance in that. "Are you mad at me, Metryn?"

"A bit," the man admitted, giving him a crooked smile. "Adrak told me why he's keeping it quiet so I'll keep my big mouth shut too. I just can't see why we can't tell to the others."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "That's what bugging you?" he asked with surprise. "Not me, I mean…" he motioned at himself. "Thing?"

Metryn waved his hand dismissively. "My father came back to tell my mother some things when I was still a kid, and it wasn't that big of a deal really."

Harry eyed the man and shook his head, chuckling softly. "I wouldn't mind everyone in this world knowing, Metryn, if they also knew to leave me alone," he admitted. "But they probably wouldn't, so… what can you do?"

"Hm. I suppose you're right about that," the chocobo specialist mused and then gave the wizard a thoughtful look. "One thing, though. How old are you really? Because some of the things you say, they don't make too much sense."

"I really have no idea," Harry laughed.

They soon came to the front of the Djose Temple and Harry saw exactly why the chocobos would get fidgety around the place. Like the Macalania temple, Djose seemed to embody a element in it's design, and though it was most obviously a very rocky place, it was definitely not earth. While he stared up to the lightning flickering above the temple, where enormous rocks floated, suspended by the wild energy sparkling about them, he had to wonder if the rest of the temples were like it.

Only when he looked down from the impressive display of power, he saw that he was being expected. "Um, sir," he called up ahead and to Adrak before nodding back at the temple - and at the male Fayth who stood by the entrance.

Adrak frowned before pulling at his chocobo's reigns to turn it towards Harry. "I should've considered it," the man murmured while leaning in to speak to Harry in semblance of privacy while the rest of the knights eyed them curiously. "How long do you need?"

"I have no idea," the wizard admitted, glancing at the Fayth. He was impressive looking fellow, and he was scowling rather fiercely at Harry's direction, looking impatient. "I'll try to be quick?" he offered somewhat uncertainly.

"Even _quick_ is time we can't waste - not if we want to make it to the highroad in any reasonable hour," Adrak frowned a little, glancing at the temple but unable to see the fayth. After moment of furious thinking the man glanced at the other knights - who were now whispering amongst themselves. "Alright," he said, and turned to Metryn. "How fast would you say Sol is?"

"Hm. Well, she's a big bird - and she's got the benefit of having been wild all her life, so she's pretty used to moving. I'd say she's among five fastest birds we have, once she gets some proper training," Metryn said and gave Harry's mount a thoughtful look. "I think she'd be able to catch up even if you got a hour's head start - even more so, once she gets chance to rest."

"That sounds about right," Adrak nodded.

"Yeah, except for the fact that I'd probably get lost within ten minutes," Harry said, eyeing his captain a bit incredulously.

"Don't be stupid. I'll be staying behind with you," Metryn said, patting Berka's neck. "My boy might be older than most our birds, but he's still a bird from Mi'ihen, and no Mi'ihen bird will lose to a Calm Land's bird in speed."

"Good, then it is settled," Adrak said, nodding. "I'll see you in the Mi'ihen Highroad in the latest."

"Yes sir," Metryn nodded, and while Harry scratched the back of his neck awkwardly beneath the stares of the rest of the knights, he and Metryn waited was Adrak called a move out, leaving the two of them behind.

"So," Metryn said once they could only see the tail feathers of the other chocobo knights. "Now they'll all think you're a Summoner, probably," he said, grinning.

"Would be easier if I were, I bet," Harry sighed, but smiled regardless. Then he turned towards the temple, dismounting from Sol's back while Metryn slid down from Berka's saddle.

"You go on ahead. I'll just wait in the Travel Agency, after I put the birds into the stable and see about getting some greens for them," Metryn said, and with a thankful nod Harry handed Sol's reigns to him, before turning to the Fayth waiting for him.

"So, you're the punk I've been hearing about," the Fayth said, as Harry stepped closer. "I gotta say, you look better than that Tidus fellow the rest of them are so keen about, that's a damn certain," the man added, nodding appreciatively at Harry's armour. "You'll float like a boulder, I bet, but it's definitely better than nothing. It might even take more than fraction of a second for Sin to squish you."

"Um, thanks?" Harry offered somewhat awkwardly, and the Fayth barked a laugh at him.

"I gotta tell you, I don't much care about this whole business one way or the other. I've been Fayth for a while now, and at this point one supposed hero looks just about the same as the other one to me. I get what makes you special, or what makes the others think you are in any case, but really, it doesn't matter one jot to me," the man added, before motioning Harry to come closer. "Come on. There's some stuff I need to tell you that everyone else is too chicken shit to talk about."

"If you don't care, why do you need to tell me?" Harry asked, but more curious than objecting, and followed the man to the doors of the temple.

"Because if there's a chance you actually might pull it off, then using the time to tell you is moment well spent," the Fayth said, shrugging his shoulders. "I hate Sin as much as any other Fayth, make no mistake. Probably more than they do, I lost practically a whole fleet of ships to the bugger. I'd feel a whole lot better knowing that it's not bothering sailors out there no more."

"Okay, I'll buy that," Harry murmured, pushing the temple doors open. Inside the place wasn't as impressive as the Macalania temple, but there was definitely the same design to the place - the same circular space for the entrance hall, similarity statues here and there. Only where Macalania had had ice and crystals, Djose had rock and lightning. "What's the name of your Aeon?" Harry asked curiously, after making sure there was no one near to hear.

"Ixion, the thunder unicorn," the Fayth said, snorting. "That's another thing. Aeons are formed from the inner spirits of us Fayths - from what we value and what we fear - and what we respect. I had a healthy fear and respect for storms, I got Ixion. Shiva's Fayth was a cold hearted witch in life and she got Shiva. Makes you think what's the deal with Bahamut, being a dragon and all."

"Okay," Harry nodded. So, Bahamut was a dragon. He hadn't known that.

"Come this way. There's no one but the priests here, since this temple isn't that popular by travellers - they tend to pass this place by and head to Moonflow instead, since it's prettier," the Fayth of Ixion said, and led Harry to the common rooms which were much smaller and simpler than those of Macalania as well. "If anyone comes in, you can just tell them you needed to take a piss, or something."

"I'll keep that in mind," the wizard promised. "So, what do you want to tell me?"

"The dirty bits the others tend to avoid. You got the gist of aeons and stuff from Bahamut and Shiva, right? Good, that aint my field anyway. The other stuff isn't either, but you overhear a lot of things in a temple like this - it's so noisy that people think no one will overhear them," the Fayth grinned somewhat nastily. "So tell me; how much do you know about the Yevonites?"

"Um," Harry hesitated. He hadn't though he'd be getting a lecture on religion - but then, the Fayth had the sort of look on his face that told him it wasn't really going to be a lecture. Gossip, more likely. "Well, I know the Yevon they actually worship is the origin of Sin, and that the religion started because they wanted to calm Sin down. And that the Yevonites sort of run everything now?" he offered.

"Mm-hmm, and it's been a happy little joust to that control," the Fayth agreed. "The thing Shiva's Fayth says about herself, that she became Fayth to keep on fighting sin? Complete bullshit. She didn't have choice - after she couldn't get the Final Aeon, she was pretty much sacrificed to Yunalesca by her priest buddies. She's not the only one, the Fayths of Valefor and Ifrit are pretty much the same - there was bit of a shortage of Aeons back then, with people trying to steal them and destroy them."

"Why would anyone want to destroy Aeons?" Harry asked, frowning.

"To stop the pilgrimages. It is sort of like open secret now, the Final Summoning, but there was time when people didn't know at all - and when they found out, they got pissed. They tried to hide some of the Aeons to stop the pilgrimages - some three were destroyed because they didn't handle them right. The statues are pretty fragile, they don't handle moving too well," the Fayth scowled. "After all that, Yevonites needed to bolster the ranks of the Aeons, so they had Yunalesca make more. Regardless of if Fayth's-to-be agreed to it or not."

Harry nodded slowly. He had known all wasn't right with Yevon already, so it wasn't that big a shock. "But that was hundreds of years ago."

"Maybe. Doesn't mean that they've changed their ways - creation of Anima is just proof of that," the Fayth of Ixion said. "And that's not all I got to tell you, anyway. Chances are you're going to end up going head to head with the head honchos of the church sooner or later if you're any good at what you're doing, so you need to be on your toes. The Chocobo Knights are new and just sort of stumbling along right now, and the Church doesn't much mind them, but if you make noise about yourself, and you're probably going to, they'll take a notice of you."

"And it would be better if it they didn't," Harry mused, frowning.

"Nah. Shake the bastards up as much as you can, they need it. Just, don't let them manoeuvre you, if you can stop it," the Fayth said. "The Crusaders used to be a free organisation too, before the Yevonites put up their witch hunt for them and Lord Mi'ihen and all. They'll do the same to you, if they think the Knights are going to be something special - and if you'll let them, they'll notice you too, and that's a can of worms you don't want to open."

"What's the worse they could do?" the wizard wondered.

"Think about it for a moment," the Fayth snapped. "Don't you think they don't know about Sin, about what it really is? Of course they know. And they've known for thousand years - and what have they done about it? They've cashed it in, turned it all into a business," the man snorted. "That's why they took the Summoners and made the temples their own, that's why they made more Fayths when they lost their old ones. They like having the temples, they like having followers and believers and they like the money and power their followers give them. It's damn good business, being in charge of saving the world."

"… oh," Harry murmured, eyes widening.

"Yeah. It would be bad for business if some upstart knight went and defeated the thing their whole empire was based upon," the Fayth nodded grimly. "You can imagine what they'd do, if they got the chance."

"So. I should keep quiet," Harry mused.

"No, no. Be as noisy as you can. Just, about the right things. And don't let them put you under their thumbs," the Fayth said. "And, as little as I care for the brat, you being noisy will be good for Tidus, in case you fail. Easier for him to go unnoticed."

Harry smiled faintly. "There's that. Did Bahamut's Fayth take my suggestion?" he asked.

The Fayth of Ixion barked out a laugh. "For all the good it'll do us," he said. "Right now the brat doesn't know the sea from the sun. Which reminds me of another thing. Two things, actually. If you ever run into them, keep in mind that Mika, the Grand Maester of Yevon, is also an Unsent. He died about ten years ago, but kept coming to work anyway. All the other Maesters know but they say nothing about it because whatever he is, Mika is good at keeping the house at Yevon."

"He is? Huh," the wizard muttered. Frowning, he recalled what Jyscal had said, about Guado's standing against the Unsent being as firm as times permitted. That must've been what the man had been talking about. "How did Tidus remind you of that?" he asked, just so that he wouldn't start wondering why Jyscal hadn't bothered to mention it to him.

"Because for the last ten years, he's been taken care of by a Unsent fellow by the name of Auron - the other one of Braska's two guardians," the Fayth said, and grinned crookedly. "He's a bitter old bastard, the other Fayth don't much care for him - he's bit of like thorn on our collective backsides, really, and it always felt weird to have him in the Dream. I kind of liked the guy, though. Tidus was a bit too much of a whiner for me, Auron was much more interesting."

"But, uh… You mean he's Unsent, from the _actual_ Spira, who… went into the dream?" Harry asked, confused. "And watched for Tidus. How the hell does that work?"

"When you think about it, the Unsent are only their own memories about themselves. But yes, it was difficult - he had to ride Sin in and out, it never would've worked otherwise. Tidus we could've pulled out without any trouble, but Auron was never natural part of the dream, which messed it all up for everyone. The Fayth are repairing the dream right now, after Sin smashed it up," the Fayth said. "But never mind that. The thing I'm getting to here is that Auron could use a leg up."

"…okay," the wizard nodded slowly. "I'll help my fellow Unsent out, sure. What do you want me to do?"

"Pick him up," the Fayth said and nodded towards the door. "He's lying on the shore about two miles south from here. Sin nearly absorbed the Pyreflies that form his body so he's kind of breaking apart the seams."

Harry frowned at that. "Absorbed - can Sin do that to me?" he asked worriedly.

"No, not to you. Bahamut took steps, remember? You can still be sent if the Summoner is powerful enough to break through the barrier Bahamut set, but Sin's attraction over Pyreflies is more passive that what Summoners do," the Fayth assured. "Just find Auron, slap him about the face a couple of times, something like that. I'd hate to lose the one interesting person of this play so soon."

x

AN: And that's where I stopped writing this, uh... well, almost a year ago. God, it's been a long while since I wrote this. I suddenly started to feel seriously nostalgic for it, and remembered I had only posted a smallish bit of it in TnT, so I thought, what the hell. I really liked the story idea, slash and knight!Harry and all, and I had interesting-ish plans for it if I recall it right... I doubt I will continue this, but I figure someone might appreciate what I wrote so far.

I think this might be my biggest single-chapter post ever.

My apologies for the possible grammar errors. Being nostalgic doesn't make me any less lazy about that, or any less Finnish. Sorry.


	53. Four random AU snippets

Warnings: Four snipped ideas. Alternate universes all around!

**Situational Abhorrence  
**_(Sherlock Cross, AU)_

The house is beautiful, and big – two stories and four wings judging from the way it looks from the outside, with several windows adorning the front, perfectly polished glass in each one and neatly painted frames… the house even has a tower somewhere in the back. It's not the size, though, but the decoration, the statues in the front and the door knocker, which is aged but new all at once, ancient and well taken cared off. _Rich_ is the term that fits the place the best.

"Mr. Potter. I'm glad you could come at such a short notice," the woman who owns the place greets him with a stiff smile that might've been warm, once. She has something in her eyes now, that makes the smile about as emotional as a brick wall with barbed wire.

"I'm intrigued to be here, Mrs. Holmes," Harry answers, because he isn't exactly glad, but won't lie. "It's not every day I get an offer of a contract from a muggle."

"I'm daughter of a squib, grand daughter of a witch," Mrs. Holmes says as way of explaining, and motions him inside. "I'm afraid my mother broke some of your laws in keeping herself and her children informed – and I have not exactly kept my activities within the legal boundaries, having kept myself up to date concerning the current happenings of the other world. Please, come this way."

The wizard follows curiously, looking about as they cross through the entrance hall that is adorned by several portraits and paintings and an enormous chandelier that glitters in crystalline sparkle. Even inside, the place is rich. This job will pay well, he knows, whatever it is.

"I will not bore you with tedious small talk or by offers of drinks or snacks, I'm aware that you are professional," the woman says, as she leads him away from the front hall, through several corridors and into a enormous library that was also a sitting room with velvet cushioned sofas and divans and an enormous fireplace which Harry notes is big enough to be a wizard's fireplace. "I will instead get to the business."

"Whatever you prefer," Harry agrees amiably, though he's a bit disappointed. Small talk and snacks are a good way to gauge a person's true self – to see what they care about, what matters to them, where their priorities lie and what makes them tick. He likes knowing those things – they tend to be pretty important in the long run.

"My son has recently entered a very difficult and a very dangerous line of work," Mrs. Holmes says, sitting down smack in middle of one of the couches, with obvious confidence and blatant self-assurance. Ruler of her domain, she is, and she knows it too. "My husband engaged in similar sort of work before him, and it got him killed."

"I see," Harry says softly, giving her a considering look and then sitting down on another couch across her – he sits on the left side of it, not in the middle. It leaves him clear line of sight with all the windows, the door, and the fireplace is in the corner of his eye. "So is it a bodyguard you want? For your son?"

"That, yes," Mrs. Holmes agrees, looking him thoughtfully and then narrowing her eyes. "They say you are good." She says the words not like a statement, nor as a question, but as something daring, almost mocking. Urging him to defend himself, one way or the other.

"Depending on what we're talking about, I might as well be," Harry answers calmly. He knows better than to prance and bluster.

"Well then. As a bounty hunter?" the woman asks.

"One top five in the magical world, among the twenty best in the muggle one," Harry answers, leaning a back a bit, getting a feel of her game now. He isn't sure if she's gauging his pride or confidence, or just his own sense of self-importance, but she wants to know something. He might as well indulge her – he's good at indulging his employers.

Mrs. Holmes lifts a single eyebrow. "As a killer?" she prods.

Harry doesn't answer that questions – people like him never did. It's a very telling question, though, not from his side but from hers. It's not just a bodyguard she's looking for, if she's asking that of him – especially when it comes _after_ a question about what sort of bounty hunter he made.

The woman smiles with something like satisfaction, and folds her arms. "As a spy?"

"Among top twenty in the magical world," Harry says, relaxing a bit.

"But not in the muggle word?" she asks, sounding honestly curious.

"Magicals make bad spies in the muggle world," Harry shrugs. "Especially in this day and age. Muggle information transferring, gathering and spying is going more and more to the digital form – and magic works badly with delicate technology."

"Ah," Mrs. Holmes nods in understanding. "How are you as a bodyguard, Mr. Potter?" she asks finally.

"The best," Harry answers.

"Well that came quickly. And confidently," she notes, looking at him keenly, thoughtfully. "I suppose you have the reputation to back it up. Who do you think would be the second best?"

"Nathaniel Smith," Harry says without having to even consider it too much. In his line of work, whatever it is at a time, people tend to know each other. Especially magical ones.

"I don't think I have heard of him," Mrs. Holmes murmurs.

"You wouldn't have. He's never worked in Britain and has been engaged by some underground organisations in Japan for the past ten years," Harry shrugs and then gives her a look. "I thought we weren't going to have any small talk."

"Hm. I suppose not, though I wouldn't mind knowing if there would be some other people I could hire," the woman answered and then shook her head. "You are truly the best?" she asked intently.

"Bodyguard? Yes," Harry says. It might've been a bit pretentious of him to say so, considering that he hadn't been in the business for _that_ long, but he's confident in the knowledge that he is. He went through hell to get that title, and it is his in way the title of Boy Who Lived never was. He had _earned_ this one, after all.

"I will hold onto that," Mrs. Holmes says darkly, looking at him with held oddly guarded, oddly impenetrable eyes. "And I will destroy you and everything you ever held dear, if you fail to deliver."

"You won't have to," Harry answers. "At that point, I'll already be dead." And there was very little he _held dear_ left in the world. "Just tell me the job, Mrs. Holmes," he says then. "There is no need to threaten me to motivate me – the work is its own motivation."

The woman lifts a single eyebrow at that, but seems pleased. "Well then. Like I said, my son entered a dangerous occupation recently. It is an unspoken position in the British government, that has existed for more than hundred years now, but which has never been put to paper. It is… the most vital position in the government."

Harry eyes her as she trails away, wondering. There had been no governmental shifts lately, not that he knew of. No elections. This is something different – something he hasn't heard about. Something… familiar.

The woman grimaces and continues. "The father of my sons died fifteen years ago," she says. "I remained married until my latest husband – who, it so happens, held that very occupation for a time," she pauses and then continues. "The reason he married me four years ago was because he wanted my son to eventually inherit his… duties. The marriage was a cover-up, arranged so that he could train my son."

"And you didn't know?" Harry asks softly, thoughtfully.

"Not until he was killed no," Mrs. Holmes says with a sort of flat frankness that isn't as much bitterness or personal hurt, as it is cooled down annoyance. "That happened two weeks ago. I learned some facts about Edgar after the funeral, and some more about my own son after that. Mycroft, my eldest son, has now taken Edgar's office, though only very few and very carefully selected know this."

Harry says nothing for a moment, and just marvels the woman. Many women in her position would've been hurt, furious, enraged – at least a bit emotional. Not this woman though, she's cold fire and determination – and, he realises when he finally recognises the look in her eyes, hate. She hates the situation she and her son have been put in with a passion he hasn't seen since Severus Snape had died, staring up at his eyes. It's the sort of hate he wishes sometimes he had – the sort of hate that makes person _great_.

The sort of hate that makes you accommodate to a difficult situation with poisons and traps and burning blades – with betrayal and spying and assassinations.

With sudden insight, Harry narrows his eyes. "How old is your son?" he asks. This isn't the sort of reaction a mother has to a situation involving a grown man – and what she had said, marriage as a front to _training_… The son's teacher, Mrs. Holmes's husband, had been killed suddenly too. Perhaps too soon.

Mrs. Holmes' smile is cold and sharp. "He is seventeen, Mr. Potter," she answers, and her knuckles are white. "I know and understand why Edgar wanted him – I can even sympathise. Mycroft is… exceedingly brilliant. Edgar was also, of course, the position in question couldn't be handled by anyone lesser. But he is… young."

Especially for a position that had gotten its previous occupant killed. Harry hums thoughtfully at that, leaning back and tapping his upper arm with his finger. So, his principal would be a teenager and a genius, already in some sort of governmental position that had to be important and somewhat shady for all of this. The government didn't employ children just like that, after all. And for this sort of subterfuge – a marriage just for training?

It sounded awfully like something the magical side of the nation might've done. Maybe the muggle government wasn't as polished and modern than he had assumed.

**x**

**Heroes to be  
**_(Superhero AU)_

Harry tried not to look as nervous as he felt. Of all the things he had imagined his life could be like, this was not one of them, he thought not for the first time as he shifted in the leather upholstery of the very comfy chair of the Hogwarts Express. No, not at all. And despite all the things he had learned from the Gamekeeper, about his parents and Voldemort, he still didn't quite believe it all.

There was a knock in the compartment door and he looked up. A boy with flaming red hair and odd, burgundy mask covering his face peeked inside, looking momentarily startled to see Harry. "Um. Mind if I sit here?" the masked boy then asked. "Everywhere else is full."

"Sure, go ahead," Harry said, a bit uneasy. Should've he gotten a mask too? It seemed a bit… silly. And useless, considering that he was known for his green eyes and black hair, and really, who really cared about his face?

"Thanks," the boy said, leaning back and lifting something. With widening eyes Harry watched how he hefted his trunk inside, carrying it on his shoulder like it weighed nothing – while Harry himself had had to fight for every inch with his. Seeing his expression, the boy grinned sheepishly. "Super strength," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Lucky you," Harry answered feebly, and the other boy's sheepish smile turned into full, happy one. With secret jealousy, Harry watched how the other boy lifted his trunk, easy as anything, into the overhead compartment, wondering.

"Do you have a name yet?" the boy asked, as he sat down. "I don't have anything official, but mum calls me Brawn, but I will probably change it – it's sort of lame, you know? She's Fierce Tiger – and my dad's the Archivist."

"Okay," Harry answered, none of the names saying anything to him. "I'm uh… I'm the Boy Who Lived."

Brawn had to take a double take at that. "What, really? I mean… really? You have the," he motioned at his forehead, and with a sigh Harry lifted his fringe, showing the scar. "Whoa. Wicked."

Harry shrugged, a bit embarrassed. He still didn't quite believe it. About Voldemort, the super villain who could drain people's life force and strength and had done so to his parents, the Flower and Prongs as people knew them, and to countless of others. All but Harry, who alone had survived and not just survived, but killed the super villain in the act of survival.

It was a bit awkward too, to have a superpower that seemingly only worked against another sort of super power.

Brawn didn't seem to care, though, and eyed the scar with obvious amazement and maybe even hint of wistfulness. "My family isn't too famous," he admitted. "Dad just works for the ministry these days and Mum doesn't work at all. And all my brothers are supers too – my sister is one too."

"All your family are supers?" Harry asked, fascinated, and soon heard about the Curse Breaker, the Dragonologist, of Brawn's third eldest brother who had the same power as his father, and of his elder twin brothers, who at the moment called themselves Tweedledee and Tweedledum – but apparently they changed their names once a month or so.

"And there's my little sister too, but she hasn't a name yet," Brawn continued, while Harry leaned closer, fascinated.

They talked a little longer, moving from super powers to the games some supers with the ability to fly did, when they were interrupted by the arrival of a girl with bushy brown hair, and a prim looking black mask that covered the upper half of her face. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, "but have either of you seen a toad? A boy called the Green Thumb's lost him."

"No, sorry," Harry said, glancing at Brawn who had been in the process of bending one of his exercise bars into knots.

"Oh, is that a super power? Super strength, I assume. Is there a limit to how much you can do?" the girl asked from Brawn, looking interested.

"Well, yeah," Brawn admitted, looking taken a back and almost dropping the stainless steel bar. "I can only lift about three tons right now. We haven't measured my grip yet, since Hogwarts has better machines for that, though."

"Oh. Do you have enhanced healing too?" the girl asked, and then seemed to recall herself. "I'm Acumen, by the way."

"You're a what?" Brawn asked, confused, while Harry tilted his head to the side, equally confused.

"Acumen," the girl said, frowning. "It means having good judgement and ability to make quick decisions."

"And that's your power?" Brawn asked, shaking his head. "It's… kinda sounds like having common sense for a super power."

The girl flushed red beneath her mask. "Well, no. I have super intelligence and total recall," she said, sounding insulted. Sniffing slightly, she looked at Harry, pausing slightly. "And you are?"

"The Boy Who Lived," Harry said, wondering what he'd have to do to change his name. It was too much of a mouthful.

"Are you really? I've read all about you. You're mentioned in …" the girl started excitedly. Continuing to name some half a dozen books that mentioned him and his miraculous ability to survive Voldemort's draining power, which had killed so many other super heroes, and several neutrals. The longer she went, the more awkward Harry felt and when she finally deigned to stop and to return to her search of the lost toad, he was rather relieved.

"I would hate to be on her house," Brawn muttered, while Harry just shook his head, relieved to be no longer under the magnifying glass.

It wasn't long after that that they were interrupted again, this time by a boy in what looked like honest-to-god silver face mask, and two other boys, somewhat bigger, both wearing black half masks. "I've heard that the Boy Who Lived is on this train," the silver masked boy, who Harry could remember seeing in Madam Malkin's Costumes for All Occasions. "I suppose that's you," the boy said, and then held out his hand. "I'm the Dragon," he added.

Brawn snorted softly, and Harry was saved from shaking the Dragon's hand as the silver masked boy turned his attention to the other boy. "I don't need to be told who you are. Red hair, second hand costume, tattered mask. You must be the Archivist's son. My father – that's Lord Noble – has told me all about your family. Too many children than they can afford, all with second class powers."

"What was that?" the Brawn asked, standing up and flexing his hands – hands, which could lift three tons.

The Dragon snorted, and his two companions stepped forward, flexing theirs.

Harry, a bit awkward and without a power as far as he knew, stood up as well. Brawn had super strength, sure, but it was still three against one, and he wasn't about to let his new friend face such odds.

Thankfully the fight wasn't much of a one. Both the Dragon's companions seemed to have some level of super strength, but not the same level as Brawn's, who wrestled them both out of the compartment all by himself. That left Harry facing against the Dragon, who watched with idle expression, looking bored more than anything.

"In this world, there are several sorts of supers, you know," the Dragon said to him, holding out his hand again. "I can help you steer away from the wrong sort."

"I think I can choose for myself, thanks," Harry answered, but took the hand. The Dragon's skin felt cold and oddly scaly beneath his fingers, and as they clasped hands the Dragon squeezed, hard. Harry barely managed to keep himself from wincing, as he felt the bones of his hands grind against each other – but he wasn't about to let his weakness show. Holding his ground, he glared at the other boy, and tried to squeeze back.

There was a flash of something between their clasped palms, and with a hiss the Dragon withdrew his hand, looking at his palm. There was a faint scorch mark there, and while Harry looked at his own hand with surprise, the Dragon sniffed, turned on his heels, and walked away.

"You okay there, mate?" Brawn asked, as he stepped back into the compartment, to find Harry still looking at his hand.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so," Harry admitted, flexing his fingers, still feeling some of the flash of energy he had just expelled. Could it be…?

Two years later, after countless weeks and months of training, he came to be called _Barrier_, after the most useful way of bending his ability to expel energy, though the most impressive one was the energy guardian, or the Protego. Brawn, in the end, didn't change his name, but the Acumen, after misadventures that had left to friendship they all knew would last for a lifetime, re-chose her name, and called herself _Brain_.

Together, they made a pretty good team.

**x**

**Sundown**

_(Time travel AU)_

When the thirtieth comes, Albus has a bottle of brandy waiting for Harry on the side table of the headmaster's office. Harry smiles at the bottle faintly as he sinks to sit in the blush armchair across his old teacher – it is his favourite brand.

"So, today's the day," Albus remarks, as he opens the bottle with deft movements and pours the drinks. "To your success, my young friend," the old man adds, as he hands the unremarkable glass over to the younger man.

"To your future," Harry answers, while Albus takes his own drink and they toast quietly, taking a drink in unison. The burn against his tongue takes away some of the sudden, unexpected bitterness of the occasion and with a sigh Harry leans back, examining the glass thoughtfully, wondering if he'd ever drink brandy again. Or anything, for that matter.

"How does it feel?" the old Headmaster asks, his tone neutrally interested rather than sympathetic or even kind – of which Harry is absurdly glad. Getting through Albus' interior of the kindly grandfather was one of his better accomplishments, certainly easier on his sanity over the last ten or so years, but right now he appreciates it more. He wasn't sure if he would've managed to keep himself from loosing if, if the old man had looked at him with those old familiar eyes, full of twinkle and empathy.

"I've got no bloody idea," Harry answers honestly, smothering the urge to snort, to laugh – to cry. None if it will make any difference and he's done more than enough of all three. "I thought I'd be happy, or maybe sad. But all I can really feel is... terrified. Relieved, I suppose, and yeah I'm satisfied with what I did, but... yeah. Bloody terrified about covers it."

Albus says nothing for a moment and they drink their first glasses silently, before Harry reaches forward for a re-fill. "I suppose it's nothing if not understandable to have mixed feelings," the old man finally says, holding his glass for a refill too, using wandless magic casually and without motion to add in new ice. "I know I would, in your situation."

Harry has to smile at that, as he leans back again. "You wouldn't have been stupid enough to do this, though," he says, looking around them. The headmaster's office is a bit different from the way he remembered it from twenty years back – dozen years forward – when he had first entered it as a twelve year old boy. The instruments are there, sure, bubbling and whirring and letting out occasional puffs of steam, but there is just a slight difference to way they had been set up, the colour of the carpet, the way the light falls, the way the portraits hang. Slight, subtle differences.

"Or as brave," Albus says quietly, contemplating his own glass for a moment before looking up as well, not at the interior but up, above the portraits and bookshelves, where there is a star map painted right into the arching ceiling. "I still do not know where ever you found such conviction."

"Lot of death and not enough life. Too much love. You know how it is," Harry chuckles, and takes another sip. "Selfishness gift wrapped in what I thought was selflessness."

"And it wasn't?" the old man asks, now sounding a bit amused. "Considering the consequences, one can't call what you did an act of pure selfishness. If there is any selfishness in it at all."

"Well," the younger wizard hums, shrugging his shoulders. Maybe not. "I did it for selfish reasons, though," he says. "Every bit of it."

Albus hums in answer, nodding. "Was it worth it?" he asks then, turning his eyes down and to Harry, who lowers his glass, seriously considering it.

Was it? Is it? Overall, yes, as things stand right now, it is worth it. He had lost everything he had in the progress, his life, his friends, his family – even his name – but he had gained more too. New friends, new name and even if he hadn't managed to make a family, the one he had had before flourished. Would flourish. That was worth anything, everything.

"I counted," Harry says after a moment. "How many people would be dead by now, if I hadn't came. About three thousand muggles would be dead through various... incidents. Four whole magical bloodlines. As for individuals – thirty four half bloods, seventeen pure bloods, eighty seven muggleborns. Eleven goblins, four centaurs, thirty four werewolves, twenty three vampires..."

"Have you always kept track?" Albus asks curiously.

"More or less, not in detail. Mostly it's just that I had the numbers from _before_ and I could compare – find the ones who were dead then, who aren't now," Harry shrugs. "As far as the numbers go... yes, it was worth it, every bit of it."

"And on personal level?"

That is a bit harder to answer and harder to figure out. How do you turn a _life_ into numbers and compare? "Yes. Right now it is, definitely," Harry says slowly, but in the same time…. "But I have no idea if it will be ten, twenty years from now. I'll never know for sure, will I?"

Albus says nothing, just looks at him.

Harry shrugs at the look – it had been a rhetorical question anyway. "People will have better chance in life this time around. My friends, my family, you, everybody – even Snape, for Merlin's sake. That's worth something," Harry murmurs, looking away. He won't get to enjoy it though, won't get to see it, so that's a bit of a downer. "That's worth everything."

"It is," Albus says, and it sounds almost like a promise, making Harry look at him and flash a smile. The elder man answers with a faint one of his own, sipping his brandy. "What is life worth, if we do not spend it trying to make it better for those who come after us?" the old man asks, but without the usual grandiose tones.

"Yes, but… if everyone does that, if those who come after us spend their lives trying to make life better for those who come after them... who gets to enjoy it?" Harry asks and shakes at the look the older man gives him. "I'm not saying I didn't – I did enjoy my life. But I know there could've been more and I hope that those who come after me will be a lot more selfish."

"I don't think you need to worry about that. People like you aren't exactly the norm," the old man says with an almost sardonic tilt to his smile and shakes his head.

"People like you too, old man," Harry says, holding his glass in a haphazard toast. "Ignoring whatever you did when you were young, when ever have you done anything for yourself?"

The old man blinks at that, and then laughs at the words – a soft, almost silent laugh. "Oh, my dear boy. You and I are worlds apart, when it comes to that," he says, shaking his head. "I am nothing if not selfish – I never did anything for anyone, but for myself. To satisfy my need to be... better than I am. And gods above know how many times I failed, at that and at everything else."

"Well, so did I. Nobody's perfect," Harry says and then stands up, taking his glass with him as he walks to the window to look down at Hogwarts. It's empty now, the summer holidays having summoned the students away. Still, the school is lit, windows shining with golden, inner glow against the dark of the night.

No better place to go in, than home.

Harry watches the castle for a while, sipping his drink, before speaking again. "Albus. I want you to know that getting the chance to teach here has been one of the best things that ever happened to me. Here and there," he says, glancing backwards at the older wizard. "I really appreciate that you took me in, I know I didn't make much of a first impression."

"Well, I was desperate for someone to fill the spot – At that point I would've taken any two-bit charlatan that came along," the old man says, with a smile. "I'm glad it was you I hired, however, and not just because of your efforts during the war. You are a natural born teacher, my young friend. I am glad you enjoyed the work," Albus says, looking at him from his chair. "And know that you will be leaving behind many disappointed students – I doubt they will ever forgive me, for finding a new divination instructor."

"Just make it someone other than Sybil Trelawney, and they'll be fine," Harry says, smiling as he whirls the brandy idly in his glass, still eyeing the school. He hadn't been much of a divination teacher, not as far as divination itself went. Not with the amount of cheating he had done – but then again, what was divination if not cheating?

A clock chimes in the other end of the office. Harry glances towards it, as it continues chime, once, twice – twelve times in total. It was midnight – and thus, it was the 31st of June, 1980.

"How much time you have?" Albus asks, looking at the clock too.

"A bit longer. I'm not sure how much, though – I was born just little after midnight," Harry shrugs, turning back to the window. "Remus sent me a message earlier – Lily went to labour about four hours ago."

"Oh," Albus says, blinking and turning to look at him with shock. "I thought... I thought you had the day. Why didn't you tell me it would be this soon?"

Harry shrugged, taking a sip of the brandy. "It wouldn't have changed anything, except maybe made these last moments a bit more hectic. I've made my preparations, said my goodbyes, cleared my rooms... I like it better this way," he adds before glancing at the older man. "Unless... you'd prefer I did this somewhere else. I can leave."

"No, no, my dear boy," Albus says, and stands up as well, taking the glass and the bottle and walking over to him. "I will gladly keep you company."

Harry sighs and relaxes a bit, holding his glass out to be refilled. They stand for a moment in companionable silence by the window, just looking down at the castle.

"Did you tell them?" Albus asks after a while. "The Potters, your parents?"

"No. I wouldn't have told Remus if he hadn't been so damned clever," Harry laughs. "I thought about it, though, a lot of times, but… When I came here, they weren't even in Hogwarts yet," he shakes his head, amused at the memory – having watched his parents being sorted from the staff table had been… interesting. "Later on, it would've been just awkward. I was a teacher to them, and not one they were particularly close to – neither was in my class, after all."

"Do you regret it?" the older wizard asks.

"No, not really. My parents had different lives, they had to face different choices, different challenges. The Lily and James who I watched being students aren't my parents, and they never will be," Harry says and shrugs his shoulders. "And that's okay. That was what I wanted."

Albus nods at that, taking another sip. "It is a pity, though. That so few people know what you've done," the older wizard says after a moment.

"Let people be ignorant. They'd never appreciate the truth," the younger man says. "You do and maybe Remus does too, but that's only because you know what might've been, because I told you. For the rest what I did would just seem like bunch of atrocities with very little cause." Lot of people punished for crimes they'd never commit.

"True enough," Albus agrees, looking at him. "Still, you do deserve more recognition."

"I didn't do it for that and you know it. I'm fine with this," Harry says, taking a deep breath and glancing at the clock. Merlin, but the time was passing fast now. "This is just fine. Fading into obscurity. It's pretty much all I wanted since the whole damned Boy Who Lived business started."

The older wizard smiles and sips his brandy again, before lowering the glass. "This might seem cruel, but I have to ask. If I don't, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering," Albus says almost apologetically. "Did you ever try to change it? To prevent this?"

"Not really. I knew it was inevitable," the younger wizard says. "I knew what I was about from the start and I knew the consequences – changes to the history always have their consequences. I didn't mind, really, I thought it'd be worth it." He is quiet for a moment before chuckling quietly. "I did try to find out what it would be like, though. What it would... feel like, when it'd finally happen."

"Did you?" Albus asks quietly.

"No, not really. It's not like there are any records of things like these – there can't be," the younger wizard says and shrugs. "All I really found out was the theories. That it isn't really death, because a version of me will keep on living. It's more about the universe resuming – except without me in it." He shrugs. "The reality will write me out, so that my younger self can be whatever he will be."

Albus says nothing, just drinks his brandy quietly, leaning onto the window frame.

"The way I figure, I will just cease to exist," Harry says. "No afterlife, nothing. It's a bit of a downer, but it could be worse."

"It might not happen that way," the older wizard says, looking at him. "Do you know anything about law of conservation of energy? It's a muggle concept, but it applies to magic as well."

"That energy can't be destroyed, only... changed," Harry says and shakes his head. "I know about it. But the thing about that law is it that it applies to isolated systems, and what's within them. If we consider the universe as an isolated system, then my case already is thrown out of it because I won't be inside the isolated system for long. I will be written out."

"True," Albus says and smiles. "But the outside of the system has to be something too, doesn't it?" he says.

"Well, maybe. I never studied the idea that closely, I have no idea how it really works. Right now though I'll just be content with expecting non-existence and nothing else. If I get something more, let it be a pleasant surprise," the younger wizard says, with a smile of his own.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts nods. "I will miss you, my young friend," he says then. "You are an extraordinary young man, and this world – this universe – will be less without you."

"It will have a version go me – and I think it might be a bit better off with that one," Harry says, lifting his glass. "But for what it's worth, I will miss you too, old man. Take care of the reality while I'm gone, alright?"

"After all the trouble you went through to recreate it? But of course," Albus says, and they clink their glasses quietly together.

"Cheers," Harry says and drinks. As the old man turns to look outside, Harry rolls the taste on his tongue and then lowers the glass to the window sill, sighing contently. It is a really good brand. Perfect farewell drink.

When the old wizard turns back from the window, it is only to find himself alone in the office.

**x**

**Take a number  
**_(AU, AU, AU, AU. Sort of linked with my story Summoned)_

"Well," Albus murmured to himself, as the crackle and sparkle of the spell faded and he found himself standing in a tall hall with dark walls, perfectly white walls, and pillars holding the high class ceiling at his both sides. He looked curiously left and right, saw numerous doors with symbols and writing in them, and a set of enormous double doors just behind him – it was like he had just stepped through them.

And in front of him, there circular desk with a young man sitting behind him, working with what looked like one of those… muggle compooters. The young man had dark hair and glasses, and he looked vaguely familiar.

Curious, he Headmaster of Hogwarts headed forward, approaching the desk. "Excuse me?" he asked. "Might you good fellow be able to tell me where I am?"

The young man glanced up, looking at him idly through his glasses with strikingly familiar green eyes. Then, seemingly ignoring him, the youth turned his attention back to the muggle compooter, reaching for the mouse and clicking, before pointing at something further along the circular counter. A stand with some pamphlets in it.

"Ah. Thank you," A somewhat confused Albus said, and approached the stand. He took one rather haphazardly and then looked at the cover. In it there was drawn a very familiar looking runic circle, with words "So you need a hero?" written above it with bold, green letters. Blinking and beyond curious, he flicked the pamphlet open.

There some text and pictures inside it, with the title of first paragraphs saying, "Here's why you're here," beside which there was a very odd sort of picture of several earths overlapping one another, with a arrow pointing somewhere into the nothingness left of them, tiny writing on the dot saying "You are here!"

"Um," Albus said, and looked up.

"Read the pamphlet," the young man behind the desk said without looking up from the compooter.

Obediently, albeit confusedly, Albus did as ordered. "Here's what you're here," the first paragraph started. "You've found your self in a pickle. There is a war going on, and dark wizards are running amok! There is a terrible Dark Lord threatening the lives of everyone you consider dear and important, and should nothing be done, the entirety of your world could be thrown into darkness!"

"True enough," Albus murmured with a frown, beyond confused now. That was why he had tried to perform the summoning, before ending up here, where ever _here_ was. He continued reading.

"But alas, the Dark Lord is too powerful, protected by arcane dark magics no one else knows about, and there is no equal to his strength anywhere on your earth. It might even be that your Dark Lord is protected by a prophesy, made nearly impervious to anyone else's attacks or attempts of defeat! You've tried everything no doubt, and there has been fighting and losses, and you are at your wits ends. So, what do you do?

"Since there is no one on your earth who could possibly match your dark lord," the pamphlet continued. "You turn to other worlds! Alternate realities with their heroes, that might be far superior to anyone of your world! Now, after months of gruelling research and learning – possibly you even had to develop a entire new branch of magic for this – you've got your result. A runic circle capable of piercing through the fabric of realities and call upon the One who could save you and your world!"

Albus blinked. He couldn't say much about the tone of the pamphlet, but so far it was pretty close to the truth. "Alright," he mumbled, and continued reading.

"However!" the pamphlet said, "there is something you do not know! You are not the only one with this desire, no, you are far from the only one! In the whirlpool of realities there have been countless of others like you, who have felt this same urge! And, indeed, there have been countless of heroes as well, who once upon a time answered these summonings as the summonings were performed. Not anymore however, not since the establishment of the Heroes Inc., the first interdimensional and multidimensional corporation that works across the gaps of realities."

Albus paused a bit at that, but then continued despite his utter bafflement, unable to help himself. The text continued; "The runic formula your no doubt used has been trade marketed by Heroes Inc. for good two thousand MD years," it explained. "It and such devices can no longer be used for private hiring, but instead are delegated to Heroes Inc., accordance to the trade mark agreement.

"But never fear!" the pamphlet continued cheerfully. "Heroes Inc. is here to help you with whatever problems led you to resorting to summoning!"

The Headmaster of Hogwarts stared at the last line for a while, before turning to the next paragraph, now just too confused to stop. "What is the Heroes Inc.?" the paragraph title asked and the paragraph answered. "Heroes Incorporated was first created 2845 MD years ago, by Senior Healer Harry J. Potter, Lord Harry J. Potter, and Mr. _Dirty_ Harry J. Potter, to answer the increasing demand of Heroes, Saviours and Champions across the multiverse. It is in sense a service agency that one can contact in order to hire a suitable man for certain tasks, examples of which are ending a war, killing a dark lord, overthrowing a corrupt governments, and many others!"

"Harry j. Potter?" Albus murmured thoughtfully. Of the extinct Potter family? How curious.

"The Heroes Inc. has had over two million customers over it's many years, and is one of the most successful interdimensional corporations in existence. It has over fifty different heroes in it's employment, as well as seventeen anti-heroes, nine neutrals and four villains," the pamphlet continued. "It has had success percent of ninety four missions out of one hundred, and has yet to fail at leaving an ever lasting impact on those realities, that have engaged its services!"

Albus paused there, and looked up and at the clerk behind the desk. "I am confused," he said slowly.

"If you have complaints, please direct them to the third door on the right, the people there ought to be able to help you," the youth said lazily, his eyes still glued on the screen.

"I don't think that is quite necessary. However I would like to, hm, consult someone," Albus said carefully. "Would that be possible?"

"Fifth door on the left, please make sure to make your business clear and succinct," the youth answered almost mechanically. "And thank you for coming to Heroes Inc., we're here to save you from whatever might ail you."

"Alright then. Thank you," Albus said with a nod. "That's very kind of you."

The youth didn't answer, so Albus went to the fifth door on the left, peering carefully inside. There was a corridor inside, with a strange machine standing in the middle of it, a sign above saying "Press the red button here before going further, and take the ticket with you!" he did as ordered, and the strange machine spat out a small white note with number 75 in it. With that, he moved on ahead, through he corridor and into a large waiting room, filled with tables, benches and some people.

"Oh dear," he said, as he saw four different versions of _himself_ in the hall – one of them with burned beard and robes, and another who was sitting in the floor, rocking himself while clutching onto his white note like it was his lifeline.

There was a beautiful chiming sound, and a familiar male voice – the same voice as that of the young man at the entrance desk, actually – spoke out. "Number sixty nine, could the person with the ticket numbered sixty nine please move forth and to the booth number three, thank you."

The Albus Dumbledore rocking himself on the floor looked up with wild eyes, then at his ticket, and then he hurried up and to the booth like the devil was behind him. Albus looked after him with some curiosity, before finding himself a seat. Since it was sixty nine, and his was seventy five, he probably had some waiting to do.

"First time?" another Albus Dumbledore, this one very much like him except somehow infinitely older, asked from not too far away.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Albus answered carefully, looking him thoughtfully.

"My fourth," the other Dumbledore said with a sigh, resting one elbow on the backrest of the chair he was sitting in.

"Ah," Albus answered and then frowned. Fourth what? Another himself?

The other Dumbledore continued, however. "First time I'm afraid had absolutely no idea what I was doing here, so I requested someone who could fight," he explained to a question Albus hadn't even asked. "Which I got, of course, the champion was a splendid fighter. Then there was one fight between him and some dark wizard… and then the champion went away, his work done." He let out a little laugh, sounding tired. "I should've known better than to dismiss the fine print."

"Ah," Albus said again, following somewhat.

"The next time I did get it right," Dumbledore said, while the voice of the youth from the entrance desk called for the next number. "I was very specific about what I wanted, and so the champion came, and like asked he destroyed the target. It didn't even take him that long," he added and then sighed, even heavier than before. "Except that the target ended up returning in less than half a year, somehow with a new body."

"I see," Albus said. "And the target was…?"

"Dark Lord Voldemort, of course," Dumbledore answered and smiled. "Do forgive me old, boy, I'm a afraid I've hung around too many Harry Potters lately. Most of them consider the title, Dark Lord, utter nonsense, and dark wizards to them aren't as irredeemable as one might think, so they merely call their targets… targets. I suppose it is in a way easier, it makes them seem less human in the end. Just objectives."

"Oh, I see. Quite so," Albus nodded, now following. Somewhat. "So your world has Lord Voldemort too?"

"Most people who come here do," Dumbledore agreed with a smile.

"Indeed?" Albus murmured, and glanced around. His other two alternate versions were still there, the burned one now brushing a comb through his burned beard while the other, looking perfectly at ease, enjoyed a cup of tea. There were others, however. Most of them were people he didn't know, but there were some. A man who he suspected was a Severus, who wouldn't look his way. A woman who looked quite a bit like Minerva, but it was hard to tell from that angle.

He shook his head, trying not to think about it too hard. "You said this was your fourth time. What happened the third?"

"The same thing that happened in the second," Dumbledore answered with another sigh. "The champion defeated the target, and even performed a ritual to banish his soul to the afterlife like I requested. However, some months back in my reality, the target returned once more."

"However did he do that?" Albus asked with wonder.

"I have no idea," Dumbledore admitted. '"But this time I have my desires very clearly thought out. I want Voldemort and all his concepts gone, everything that might make him return to life, everything." He glanced at Albus and smiled. "When it's your turn, remember; these people follow their contracts to the letter. The problem is, their contracts tend to backfire on their customers."

Albus nodded, figuring that he might as well remember that. It seemed useful for later time. "You feel as if they cheated you then?" he asked. "Why do you keep coming back in that case?"

"Because these people know their business. They'll con you every knut you have, but they definitely know their business," Dumbledore said and then glanced up as the voice called for number seventy one. "Time to go," he said, standing up. "It was nice talking with you, Mr. Dumbledore."

"You too, Mr. Dumbledore," Albus nodded and smiled. "Quite pleasant."

xx

Hadn't posted anything here in a while, so I figured I might as well. Most of these are pretty old, and I posted them already on tumblr, but whatever. I might continue one of them, maybe, if the wind keeps blowing from that direction.


	54. Metamorphosis, HP AU ending sort of

Warnings: AU as of Order of Phoenix. OOC Harry, somewhat OOC Voldemort, Killer!Harry, implied past murders and future executions. Also soul bond?

**Metamorphosis**

**1.**

It takes hours for the rage to pass, and for him to stop pacing the little space he has. The urge to take anything, everything, at hand and just destroy it churns inside him and there is fire in his veins that won't let him stop, won't let him rest despite how tired he really is. Fury boils inside him, powerful and absolutely helpless and for a blinding moment that lasts an eternity, he hates with such passion that it makes his breath stutter.

It is over. He is captured – he , Lord Voldemort, is done for.

Only what is left of his pride stops him from snarling in hatred at the bars that keep him inside the simple, barren cell. It wouldn't have helped anything, he knows as much, and no one was there to listen anyway. Now that he was behind the magical suppressants, just waiting for whatever insipid punishment the fools would decide to lay upon him – for now, out of sight and out of mind. No one cares.

"Oh, that's not quite true, though, is it? I care."

The dark wizard pauses and then turns to look at the wall of cold metal bars that separates him from freedom. Harry Potter enters the room, calm and collected and this time Voldemort doesn't bother to suppress the fury he feels. It comes out in a grimace, in a hiss, and he hates how they have no effect on the boy.

Except of course Potter isn't quite a boy anymore, is he? No matter the fact that he looks like a fourteen year old boy still, he is very much not one, not where it counts.

"All thanks to you," the younger wizard assures, almost negligently waving his hand and creating a simple wooden bench, dragging it just next to the bars and sitting down.

"Get out of my head, Potter," Voldemort snarls, looking away – hating the fact that _he can't do anything about it_. Hates the fact that his wand is probably either in Potter's person, or lying somewhere, broken and ruined. Hates that here, behind the bars, magic won't come to his aid like it should, that he can't do as much as a cleaning spell, not to mention about something more powerful, something he would very much like to throw at his nemesis' face.

"Would if I could, snake face, but you made that impossible for me," the younger man says, calm as he sits down, leaning forward with his elbows at his knees, staring at him. He makes a absurd and yet somehow intimidating figure in his easiness – in his muggle clothing of black slacks and sleeveless white shirt, with the black leather straps running down from his shoulders, to his waist – holding in place the twin holsters at his armpits. He still has a wand – several most likely, one of them even visible in a holster at his hip, but it's the guns that draw attention.

"You are still carrying around that muggle rubbish," the dark lord sneers, uneasy at the sight of the pistol grips, gleaming severe and polished in the lamplight.

"Muggle yes, rubbish... well. They seemed to work perfectly well against your people," Potter says calmly. Perfectly at ease and calm – in control of the situation. Merlin, but Voldemort hates that simple display of power – hates that it is not him, on the other side of the bars.

Scowling, the dark wizard turns away, wishing he could somehow ignore the younger man – but this close, he feels the connection even through the suppressants. Just and just feels Potter, inside his head – and almost can answer in kind. "What do you want?" he asks. What, after all this, after capturing him and getting what he wants, could Potter possibly be after?

"End, for this mess," the younger man answers and Voldemort has to look at him, to see what expression he delivered the words with. Nothing, but that same easy calm.

"Indeed?" The dark wizard asks, sardonic tilt to his lips. "And how do you suppose to accomplish that, given the recent changes?"

Potter says nothing for a moment, just looks at him, still leaning forward. After a while, he straightens his back, waving a hand – adding a backrest to his little bench without any effort. "Did you know this would happen?" he asks without answering the question. "When you captured me back in ninety five?"

The dark lord – though he has to suppose that it is a former dark lord at this point – harrumphs. "If I had known, I would've done it a whole lot earlier. Back when you were eleven, perhaps," he says, and has to smile at that mental image. Potter, forever stuck as an eleven year old. That was something he definitely could've handled.

"So you didn't," Potter murmurs, frowning.

"Of course not. I couldn't have – no one could've. There has _never_ been a human Horcrux before you," Voldemort says with an irritated shake of his head. "And I didn't know at the time. Did you?"

Potter shakes his head, not seeming at all bothered by his former obliviousness. "Dumbledore might've, but you know him and secrets," the younger wizard says, folding his arms, and tilting the chair back a bit. "When he should've shared, he didn't, and then I found out for myself. Sort of."

Voldemort nods. It would take world's end and more to make Albus part with his secrets. "When did you find out?"

"I knew for a fact back in ninety six – figured it out in the summer. But I had a suspicion before," Potter shrugs. "I didn't know for sure and I didn't have a name for it, but things were... different, after that night in the graveyard."

The dark wizard nods again, thinking back. He had thought originally that it was because if the success of the ritual, that the potion had had unexpected but greatly appreciated side effect. Suddenly he had been more powerful than before, his spells had been stronger. And then, when a foolish accident at the Malfoy Manor send an old chandelier crashing down on him and the slight wound to his arm healed right before his eyes, he had embraced his new invulnerability with flourish.

He couldn't have known what it really was. No one could've – because up until that point, the very theory of a human Horcrux was not only a taboo but an impossible one. Not to mention about something as outlandish as two people, being each other's Horcruxes.

"Of course, at this point the word Horcrux doesn't really even apply, does it?" Potter murmurs, looking at him.

Voldemort snorted, looking away. No, it didn't. A Horcrux was a inanimate vessel of a soul fragment. What they were was something infinitely more complicated. Something unnamed, something that probably couldn't be named. Something utterly impossible. Something incredible.

And what a bloody, miserable waste that was?

"We could've been strong together," he says, not for the first time, unable to help himself – because that image in his head still retains it's brilliance. Them together, standing together – oh, they could've been magnificent and nothing could've stood in their way. With their newfound strength, as accidental as it was, nothing could've stopped them. The magical world – no, the whole _planet_ – would've been theirs in matter of months.

"Sure," Potter says sarcastically, and lifts his lets up, resting his feet on the grating of the metal bars. "Aside from the little problem of you _killing_ my parents."

"You never even knew them. Why mourn them?" Voldemort asks with a irritated wave of his hands – semantics and feelings. To think that his glory was denied by something so feeble, so pathetic.

"Yeah, I never knew them. Thanks to you," Potter agrees, not answering the thoughts even though he must've heard them. "Also you had my friend killed and your _woman_ killed my godfather. Whatever common ground we ever might've had was lost there and then."

Casualties of war, Voldemort doesn't say and looks away instead. That night, that stupid, idiotic plan that had ruined everything. Not just because the prophesy had been lost and his existence was revealed to the ministry but because that night had given Potter a _goal_. Of course, he hadn't realised it at the moment, he had even commended Bellatrix for her accomplishment. Right up until the moment he had found out Potter's reaction to it.

Glancing backwards, the dark lord gives the guns at Potter's sides a cold glare before looking away again. The young man lets out a sort chuckle at that, at the thoughts. "You know, it's not just Bellatrix you have to thank for that. It's you too."

"How so?" the dark wizard asks, grimacing.

"If you hadn't been bleeding into my head, I never would've bothered," Potter says, smiling. "I was a lazy boy up until that point – before I wouldn't have made the effort. But you… you are a workaholic and maniac about self-improvement. In more ways than one, you gave me the strength."

The dark wizard lets out a disgusted growl, but he can see it, very well. All the reports he had had of Potter up until that point, coming from Snape and whatever death eater children there were in Hogwarts, had painted a picture of a lazy child. Muggleborns and those raised in muggle world tended to delight in studying magic and usually spent every spare moment learning more – much like Potter's mudblood friend, Granger. Magic, for someone raised in such mundane environment, was too big of a rush for them to pass it by, normally. But Potter, despite having not even known of magic until his entrance to Hogwarts, hadn't felt it.

If anything, he had been slightly _below_ average when it came to studying, something which was hardly common among muggleborns. Why? Simple. Potter had been lazy and comfortable with following the example of the youngest Weasley boy. Despite the fact that magic should've been his salvation, he had barely put in any effort – nothing like Voldemort himself, who had devoured his books the moment he had gotten them, and never lost the hunger for more.

At least, so it had been up until Sirius Black's death. That had changed the boy drastically – and by the summer's end, the lazy boy had not only been lost according to his people's reports, but it had been replaced by someone else. A ferocious someone, who carried a vicious knife at his side, who spent every waking moment studying, practicing, _mastering_, and who had wasted no time adding muggle ammunition to his repertoire of weapons.

And who, eventually, had been unleashed as a force of simply wrought death and terror on Voldemort's own people.

If Potter had known about their connection before Black's death, he had _embraced_ it afterwards, drawing upon those personality traits of Voldemort bleeding into him, and using them to his advantage. The result was abomination of magical combat and muggle fighting methods, an expert killer who, without mercy, had brought down Voldemort's forces in a infuriatingly short time. It was, at times, more than slightly intimidating how fast Potter had learned, how fast he had changed.

"Not really," Potter answers to that unspoken thought. "When you think about it, I took my time," he says and leans forward again. "Did you think I really _learned_ this all?" he asks, motioning at the pistols.

Voldemort has to snort at that. "No," he admits. He knows Potter hadn't – half a year, which was all Potter had used to his studies, wasn't enough to give him such mastery. No, Potter had gone about it the way Voldemort himself had, long ago – though where Voldemort had stolen all the knowledge he had wanted, Potter had bought it. In bottled up memories and experiences, in legilimency sessions, in bouts of mad potioneering, Potter had achieved what for a lesser man would've taken years, decades, to master.

"Where ever did you find a wizard so experienced with muggle warfare?" Voldemort asks, thoughtful.

"Wizards," Potter corrects him, smiling. "When you get into the swing of skill trade, word tends to spread – and I paid a lot for what I wanted. In the end, people contacted me about their expertise. I didn't have to find anyone – I just had to select the ones I wanted."

That Voldemort can see too, and had seen, partially, back when it had been happening in mad dreams he had only too late started to understand. Damn Potter and the Potter-Black wealth. What he could've done with that sort of funds, he can't even imagine.

"You can't say it was a waste," Potter says, smiling. "I got you, I got your people."

"That doesn't mean you can kill me," Voldemort says, looking at him. The younger wizard had certainly tried – it had taken the healers almost twelve hours to get the bullets out of him, after Potter had emptied several clips into him and the _thing_ between them had healed him as fast as the bullets had impacted him. "As long as you live, I'm immortal. You can't even have me Kissed, not while piece of my soul remains in you. It simply wouldn't work."

And Potter hadn't stayed down even after Voldemort had lashed out with several Killing curses. Which meant that Avada Kedavra would have no effect on him, either. That is his only hope left, now. His people are gone, either killed or imprisoned or Kissed – there is nothing left but his own impotent fury, and _this_. And as accidental and unexpected as it is, as much as it grates him that it is Potter who eventually granted him immortality… as unnatural as it is, _it_ will keep him alive.

"No more than it would work on me, I know," Potter says, smiling a crooked smile. "But what do you suppose would happen if we were to be killed simultaneously?"

The dark wizard freezes at that, and turns to the younger man. "You wouldn't," he says, even as the younger man stares at him with perfect conviction. "You wouldn't kill yourself just to kill me."

"I would," Potter answers and stands up, the chair vanishing the moment he leaves it. With a smile, the younger man leans forward, to look through the bars. "You have only as long as Wizengamot decides to try and stall this, but it won't be indefinitely. They are already bending to my way of thinking. Then, once they finally get their heads out of their asses, you and I will take a little trip through the Archway down in the Department of Mysteries. Together."

"You would do that and just leave all your little friends behind?" Voldemort asks, uneasy at the almost cheerful, utterly mad smile the younger wizard gives him.

"For you? I'd do more," Potter says, grinning. "I will see you dead, Tom, even if it kills me."

x

It seems like all of wizarding world tries to change his mind, everyone from close friends to complete strangers stops him when ever they see him, and try and wheedle him into living. "Harry please, there must be another way," and "If you would just give us time, I'm sure we'd find another way," and, "You haven't even tried anything else yet!"

Whoever leaked the fact that for Voldemort to die Harry would also have to die, and that that's exactly what Harry intends to accomplish ought to be cursed. He has a feeling it was someone in the Order of Phoenix – probably Hermione, bless her, thinking that peer pressure has any effect on him anymore. It doesn't matter who did it, though, just that it's done and it's making his task very difficult for him.

Harry intends to kill Voldemort and to die, and nothing will stand in his way. Not his dearest friends or well meaning busybodies he didn't even know and certainly not bureaucracy.

"There is no other way," he tells them over and over again. "Because of the bond between us, Voldemort is stronger than ever, and on top of it, he's immortal. It's only matter of time before he overcomes the suppressants and escapes and there is nothing out there that can stop him afterwards."

"You could," they answer, and yeah, that's the problem.

Harry could, yes. Voldemort would be more aware the next time, more on his guard, but Harry still had plenty of aces up his sleeves, having stocked up in them in bulk during his self-training. The problem is the fact that he doesn't want to – and very soon, he doubt's he'll be able to.

The more of Voldemort's personality traits that bleed into him, the less he feels like _doing the right thing_. Though he can and will happily admit that yes, he had gotten bit of a boon out of the whole thing when he had gotten Voldemort's knack of studying and his ability to reach beyond his limits, it's going too far now. He had already gone from a passive, peaceful boy to a experienced killer – and since then he's lost all remorse for all the people he's killed on the pursuit of his goal. It had done some good, it had brought peace and he's not ashamed but… it can only get worse from here.

The only thing that still comforts him is the fact that he's damned terrified of the idea that one day, he might be just like Voldemort – that one day, one day very soon, he might agree with the world views of his parents' killer. Because so as long as it scares him, he's not completely overcome by it.

"Why are you so willing to die?" Voldemort asks him, in one of Harry's visits which he can't quite stop himself from making – because the bastard, the part in him that's Harry's, beckons to him, even from behind the bars and the suppressants. "You are young, you have your whole life ahead of you. So much potential and you are so willing to throw it all away."

"To kill you, yes," Harry agrees. To kill every aspect of him, in and outside Voldemort himself. He has dealt with the Horcruxes, the Cup, the Locket, the Diadem, even the damned snake are all gone. All that's left, is them.

"Even with all of your new powers," Voldemort says, soft and mockingly sad, looking at him. The bastard's calmed down from his initial fury and now just mocks him, when ever the opportunity presents itself. "All the things you've learned, the power you've gathered. You could rule this world, you know."

Sure, he could. He could and he _could,_ he has the ability, even some of the expertise, and he could've gathered more, bought more skills, more information, more knowledge, he could've made himself into a perfect ruler and the Wizarding world would've been better for it.

"No thanks," he says, snorting, and takes one of his nine millimetres from it's holster, absently checking the clip, the safety, examining the barrel for imperfections. The man he had gotten his gunmanship skills from had been obsessed with gun maintenance, and Harry inherited that from him – as well as ability to wield guns ambidextrously. It had taken couple of potions to actually manage to physically accomplish what his brain had been forced to learn, though, but it had been well worth it.

"Why ever not? Surely you see what _good_ you could do," Voldemort sneers. "Isn't that what Albus always preaches, the greater good?"

Harry snorts at that, switching the gun from one hand to another and back again. "Greater good," he repeats. "Why? What's the point?"

"I would think the concept itself is worth it, for someone like you," the dark wizard answers.

Harry shakes his head. "You have seen what the wizarding world is like, right?" he asks. "It's full of lazy, unmotivated, unambitious idiots, indecisive and unwilling to change. There lives good ten thousand magical humans in United Kingdom. Of those, how many were ever involved in your war? Thousand, at most, when you count both sides. The rest were rotting away in their hideouts and safe houses."

"True," Voldemort says, coming closer. "But surely someone like you could motivate them, into making a greater nation."

"Why would I want to bother?" Harry asks with a incredulous look. "To put that much effort for people I don't even care about, whom I have not and never will meet? People who are so willing to throw away their freedoms by not taking part in something as important as war, one way or the other, deserve to rot."

"My. What harsh words," Voldemort says, sneering, and Harry shakes his head, looking down to the gun.

Already he can't help but think that the wizarding world had _deserved_ Voldemort, if not for any other reason than because they had been too damned lazy to try and stop him. They could've – anyone could've done what he had, and more. If even ten people had gotten motivated enough to actually try and make a difference, Voldemort would've been defeated back during the first war.

The dark wizard hums, resting his hands on the grating of the metal bars and leans forward, distant look in his red eyes. "Such interesting thoughts you have, Potter. Hypocritical too, considering the way you were. You were a lazy boy, wasn't it?"

"As the damn hero of these people, of course I'd be the shining example of them," Harry answers with a short laugh and thrusts the gun back into it's holster. It's gotten too far – and Voldemort can already reach through the suppressants mentally. Something has to be done. "Don't get too comfy, snake face," he says, and leaves to see if something can be done about Voldemort's powers, somehow. It wouldn't do for the bastard to escape before Wizangamot can sign the execution order.

And damn Voldemort and his skills as Legilimens and Occlumens. Not only were they giving him a advantage with this, in overcoming the suppressants, but while Harry had to deal with the dark wizard's personality tampering with his own, Voldemort was blissfully free from such side effects, only having to endure increased magical power, stamina and immortality. Granted, Harry has all that too, but he would've gladly given it all away, just to be certain of himself again.

But there is no way anymore, no way to cure either of them – and he had tried, using every resource available in Department of Mysteries and the Ministry itself, to figure that out. The Horcrux bond between them is unbreakable – Voldemort's soul in him, his blood in Voldemort having started it, and time having wrought it into a infinite loop of power and spirit, until they couldn't get out of each other's heads even when they tried. Until no-one couldn't tell where one ended and another begun, magically or spiritually. And for as long as one existed, the other couldn't be killed.

But maybe they could be contained.

"There are ways, sure," Croaker, who has resumed his duties at the head of the Department of Mysteries. "But to make it permanent, considering his regenerative abilities… It could be viable alternative to the double execution, though, if we could simply suppress his magic indefinitely."

"What sort of ways?" Harry asks, eager and uneasy all at once. He wants Voldemort safely locked away, and this might help there, make sure that there'd be no undue escape attempts, but… the Wizengamot could and probably will take it as the _"viable alternative"_ which was not at all what he wants.

"Well, there are potions which suppress magic. There are some devices which siphon magic away from a person, or expel it before the person can use it…" Croaker starts listing possible means, most of the useless against Voldemort – suppression isn't enough because his and Harry's magic is joined so whatever Voldemort loses, Harry replenishes.

"Any way just to make him unable to use magic? Even if he still has it?" Harry asks, idly fingering his wand holster, wondering if he too would have to give up magic – if it would even matter at this point.

"Hm. Maybe, there have been studies about certain aspect of neuromagic… I will have to look into it."

"Let me know as soon as you have anything," Harry says and prepares to make yet another appeal to the Wizangamot, to make their damned decision soon – because if they don't, he'll grab Voldemort and drag him through the Veil, permission or no.

x

"How unexpectedly cruel of you, Potter," Voldemort says from the bed where he lays, hand resting on his eyes. His head is pounding and most like would be for a long while yet.

"Cruel?" the younger wizard asks from other side of the bars, sounding amused. "Compared to the things you've done, what I did was mercifully kind."

Had he had the strength, Voldemort would've snarled at that, gotten up and just thrown something at the damned brat, but as it is he can't even open his eyes without feeling nauseous. So much for the kindness of the _light_ – though unlike most, he had never had all that many illusions about their kindness to begin with. Still, _this_ was something he hadn't considered possible for them. Neither in theory, philosophy and most certainly not in practice.

His neck _burns_.

"Besides, it's nothing less than you would've done, if you had figured a way how," Potter adds, and Voldemort can feel his eyes on him. "What with your propaganda about muggleborns having stolen magic. You've had whole lot of them lobotomized, if only you could've."

"Lobotomized, how lovely," Voldemort lets out a soft sound of disgust, not having the strength for anything more forceful. He hadn't been lobotomized – Merlin but the Muggles came up with such vile words – but he might as well been, the result is more or less the same. Magical seals in his neck, running down from the base of his skull along his spine – he might not known what they were, how the seals had been constructed, but he can imagine. It's the only way they can restrict his use of magic, with his accidental ability to regenerate – by manipulating the part of his nervous system that is in charge of it.

He can still feel magic inside him. But even if he had the brain power currently to try and apply it to something, he knows he would've failed – the seals numbed that part of his being. As far as magic was concerned, he was completely paralysed from neck down.

"If the shoe fits," Potter says. "It's rather poetic, when you think about it. You getting a taste of your own medicine. Or philosophy."

"So you're saying you inherited it from me?" he adds and smiles faintly at that. He can't feel Potter's disgust at the concept, but he can hear it, in the intake and exhale of the younger wizard's breath, in the way he shifts. "I'm _so_ proud."

Except he isn't. He is disgusted and appalled, not by the fact that something like this _can_ be done and not really about the fact that it had been done to him, heedless of any approval or agreement from him – he held no illusions about having human rights at this point – but the fact that it was Potter that had demanded it done. _Harry Potter_ had had him _ruined_ and _degraded_ without any guilt or second thoughts and really… he should've been above things like this.

Apparently Potter's internal fears about becoming more like him weren't entirely unjustified. Not that Voldemort can tell if the brat is worrying about it anymore – with his ability to use magic so effectively stunted, he doubt he will ever enjoy that particular insight again. Unless he would get a chance to cut off the skin of his back and then it'd regenerate without the seal, and he rather doubts that would work – Potter isn't that stupid, he would've known about those dangers and dealt with them somehow, had the Unspeakables deal with them. Most likely the seal wasn't even on his skin, really, and would manifest on anything that happened to cover his spine, be it skin or scar tissue or bare flesh.

Still, it is a pity they don't let him have anything sharp and he can't test it.

"Well, now you can be sure I won't be going anywhere with my own power," he says, his mouth tasting bitter and his throat dry. "How much longer will we have to wait?" he asks after a moment and hates himself because part of him, the part that curls ashamed and horrified somewhere inside him, crippled and ruined by the very notion of having no magic, wonders if it would be that bad after all.

He still had immortality, no doubt. He still had what he had gotten from his bond with Potter. But without magic…

"If the Wizengamot will have their way, long and longer," Potter answers, sounding irritated and with some effort the dark wizard – or is it former wizard now, like it is former dark lord? – opens his eyes. The younger man is standing, leaning onto the wall next to the metal bars, looking at him with stiff expression that doesn't hide the hate in his eyes.

"And how long until you take matters into your own hands?" Voldemort asks, smiling crookedly because of course it would come to that. Wizengamot wouldn't grant the permission, not when it meant losing their hero, and Potter wouldn't be satisfied with that. The younger wizard wasn't obedient anymore, not to anyone, and the restraint he was putting himself under just to conform to the rule of others was visibly wearing thin. Something would snap.

"I won't. Unlike you, I still have some respect for governments and the legal process," Potter answers and then pushes himself from the wall, walking as close to him as the bars allow. "But be sure that I am not going to let Wizengamot stall indefinitely."

Voldemort closes his eyes again and sighs, relaxing as much as he can with his head pounding. "Liar. You were thinking about going over their heads and taking me down to the Department of Mysteries yourself."

Potter snorts at that. "Thinking about it won't make me do it," he says as he moves to leave.

"So sure of that, are you?" the former dark wizard says, gleefully needling at the only thing he knows Potter still fears. "Give it time, and we'll see."

"No," the younger wizard answers, already at the door. "We won't."

xx

Was going to be a X-Men First Class cross, but then I lost interest. Which is pity because I had this wonderful image in my head about Harry being a forever-14-year-old with guns and stuff and Erik and Charles going all wtf at him. Oh, and Voldemort was supposed to develop somewhat mutant like mental powers because the only way he could use magic was through his mind alone. And there were going to be lot of discussions about ethics and philosophies and exactly why Voldemort hates muggles and stuff and aaah, it's a pity.


	55. Two things, neither very good

Warnings: These are pretty bad. First is a crappy HP x Stargate cross which is crap, and the second one would've become a HP x Stargate cross, except it was crap. Also bit of whiny!Harry in the first one and Azkaban!Harry in the second one.

**Discovering the Ancient**

Swallowing the bitterness burning in his throat, Harry hurried along the darkened corridor, safely hidden beneath the cloak of invisibility. There was no one there, it being the dead of the night most everyone in the castle was probably asleep, but it still felt like he was being chased. Stalked by the whispers and the looks and the sneers people had been giving to him all week, strangers and friends alike, from three different school and beyond.

Damn the Tri-wizard tournament. Damn the goblet of fire, and damn whoever had put his name to it.

Swallowing again and blinking rapidly against the stinging of his eyes, Harry ducked away from the corridor he was following, and up a staircase. He wasn't sure where he was going, just that he had to get away. That night, after he had came back from late study session in the library – where he had been desperately trying to figure out some way to get out of the contract – he had found out just what his dorm mates though of him.

His bed had been soaking wet, his pillow shredded and his curtains full of holes. His clothing had gotten pretty much the same treatment and the homework he had stacked on his bedside table had been gone. Worse yet, his trunk had been turned upside down, most of his books had been gone, the Marauder's Map with them, his photo album who knew where. The only reason he hadn't lost his Invisibility Cloak too was because he had had it with him, knowing that his study session would stretch too late – intentionally, he didn't much like spending time in the Gryffindor Tower anymore.

It had taken a lot to not break down right there, while Ron, Seamus and Dean all looked at him with mixtures of vindictive justification and faked innocence like nothing had been happening. It had taken a lot not to _explode_.

Stopping at the top of the stairs, Harry spent a moment breathing in and out, trying to calm his breathing. It was hurting his throat, trying to get through the acidic lump there, and his knees felt shaky. Merlin, but he wanted to get away from the whole damned thing. From the tournament and now from those he had thought he could trust and rely on.

Even Hermione couldn't look him in the eye anymore.

Wiping a hand across his eyes, Harry straightened his glasses and then continued on his way. He was on the sixth level of the castle now, but it didn't matter. Despite how bad he felt, he wasn't stupid enough to head outside in the dead of the night, not knowing what the Forbidden Forest was alike. The school grounds were full of Ministry people at any rate, and he didn't need to be caught and given detention or something on top of everything else.

He continued on, his steps loud in the empty halls. The portraits along the corridors startled at the sound of them, mumbling and grunting in their portraits but mostly his passing went unnoticed. Across the corridor, around a bent, to another set of staircases.

It was the second year all over again, except worse, much worse. Now it wasn't just suspicion and fear people directed at him, but jealousy and anger and betrayal like he was the one who had let them down. And ridicule, for the tournament, for his participation, for the stupid things the Daily Prophet pushed out. Those horrible, horrible articles by Rita Skeeter who always seemed to just write whatever she wanted, not what she actually learned in her interviews.

It wouldn't have been so bad, if there had just been someone, anyone, on his side. But no. Even Dumbledore was against him, thinking he had put his name on the goblet for fame and glory and oh boy did Snape ever hold it against him. And McGonagall had always that pinched, displeased look about her face when she looked at him – like he had let her and the house and probably his parents and grandparents and all the things they stood for down in the most horrible way.

Harry gasped a breath and then stopped, leaning onto the smooth wall across a portrait where a bunch of trolls were snoring, trying to swallow it all down and just _breathe_. He felt like he was drowning in the helpless fury bubbling inside him, the frustration, the simple powerlessness. He had tried to tell them, over and over, that he hadn't done it, that he had nothing to do with the whole tournament and if only he could, he'd get out of it right now. That he'd happily change places with anyone willing.

No one believed him. He was a liar, the fame had gotten to his head and now he couldn't get enough, he had to be on the spot light, didn't he, the bloody Boy Who Lived.

Harry drew a shuddering breath and then banged his hand hard against the wall, letting the invisibility cloak fall a bit. He would _not_ cry. _He would not_.

And to think he had been looking forward to school that year. After the Quidditch World Cup it had seemed like it would be so exciting, that year. No Dementors, no fear about being hunted down by mad killer, what with Sirius being squarely on his side and safe in the tropics… and when he had heard of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, he had been so excited about getting to watch something like up close!

His knees shook and threatened to give in underneath him, so he took a few steps. Then, realising that he didn't want to keep going because he was going no where, he turned around and started to walk back and forward instead, to keep himself moving, on his feet, and off the ground.

He wanted _so much_ to just get away from it all.

When he thought about it, magic hadn't really been anything like he had hoped it would be. In the start yes he had been excited about it, he had done his school work enthusiastically and learned every new thing with a hunger he had never felt in his muggle school. But then there had been Snape and the man's eternal grudge against him, which had made one magical school subject – which by it's very definition should've been nothing but _amazing_ – into a torture. Then there had been Binns and suddenly studying magical things was _boring_. In Quirrell's classes he hadn't been able to learn much, through the man's stutter. The few subjects remaining hadn't seemed as brilliant afterwards.

And then the whole Philosopher's Stone thing had started, with Quirrell trying to kill him. He had been _eleven_ and a _school teacher_ had been trying to _kill him_.

Swallowing again, Harry tried to recall the things he had liked about his first year. Well, there was Quidditch, that had been brilliant. And Christmas – he had never gotten presents before. He had liked having Ron and Hermione, his first friends. And… well he had liked some things in general. But not as much as he had disliked other things.

The same with second year – Lockhart had turned another class into torture for him, and then Hermione had gotten petrified and then the whole school had thought Harry was the heir of Slytherin. There had been actually even less things he had liked about the second year – and by then he had lost a lot of the excitement for magic and he wasn't sure _how_ that had happened. It was _magic_ and yet it hadn't seemed… it had lost something of the lustre of the start. And worse of all, it had stopped being the wonderful escape from the Dursleys it had seemed like in the beginning. If anything, he had been better off at the Dursleys!

And the end of the third year did nothing to save it from the fact that it had been full of dementors.

And now he didn't like magic anymore. He didn't like Hogwarts – it didn't feel safe or comfortable anymore, it felt constricting, a prison full of people who loathed him, with no place to hide in. It was horrible to realise that he would've rather been anywhere else – even at the Dursleys if there wasn't a better place – than at the school of witchcraft and wizardry.

Stopping at his second back-and-forth loop, Harry ran a hand over his face, breathing deeply in and out as he faced the desperate wish inside him. He wanted to get away. Away from Hogwarts and yes, away from magic. Away from the bipolar moods of the magical world and from it's dangers, from it's people who could love him one day and hate him the next. Away from it's stupid magical contracts and lessons which he didn't even like. If he could, he'd leave, he really would, he would go somewhere without wizards, without magic.

After a moment he resumed his pacing, wondering. If he could leave, where would he go? As long as he stayed in britain, there was always the possibility that people would recognise him and treat him the way they always seemed to in the magical world. Some other place in Europe? Maybe not – the students in Beauxbatons and Durmstrang both seemed to know who he was and what he had done, so that was no go. Some other place then? Was there a place on earth were there were no wizards, where people didn't know him?

If there wasn't then what he wanted was to get the hell away from Earth all together. Snorting softly, he entertained that idea for a moment, of just leaving the whole damn planet, somehow, and never coming back. What would the wizards think of that? They'd lose their precious boy who lived, their favourite public bunching bag, their most hated celebrity. It would be a slow news week that would follow, with no Harry Potter to ridicule.

But if he could… Closing his eyes, Harry smiled a bit. Just getting lost somewhere, and never having to deal with this stuff again. Some place where… where he could learn stuff without having to rely on teachers who hated him or wanted to use him or who didn't care about him. Learn at his own pace, without having to answer to anyone. And where he could use magic however he damn well pleased, with no notes from the ministry, damning him for using the thing he had been born with. Someplace safer and secure and absolutely distant, where no one could follow him.

Where the Tri-wizard tournament and all the crap that came with it wouldn't be a problem anymore.

With a sigh he opened his eyes, a little disappointed with himself. He usually knew better than wish for the impossible – it hadn't helped him when he had been a kid and it wouldn't help him -

Harry paused, blinked and then slowly turned to look at the door standing at his side. Door which he was pretty sure hadn't been there before. Frowning, he glanced around, and towards the portrait full of sleeping trolls, wondering if he had paced away from his original spot – but no, he was where he had started walking in circles, right next to the portrait.

"Okay," he murmured, eying the door. Secret passageway? Considering it for a moment Harry shrugged his shoulders. Doors came and went in the castle all the time – though usually, people knew about them before they did and he was sure he and never heard there being a secret passageway here. It didn't matter much, though – Hogwarts was like that.

If it wasn't for the people, he really could've loved the place just for being so beautifully weird.

Sighing, he reached for the door and pulled it open, figuring that he could use a bit of distraction and that maybe it'd lead him someplace with some sort of soft surface to spent the night in. in the morning he'd try and see if he could salvage his books and if not then he'd report to McGonagall that his belongings had suffered an accident and he'd need replacements – that he'd be willing to pay for them. And for a trunk with security charms and a lock.

Grimacing at the thought how well that would've taken, Harry stepped inside and then paused, blinking at the sudden, enormous hall he had ended up in. It was full of… _stuff_. There was no other way of putting it – just stuff, compiled into enormous towers and mountains, some of which reached the high, arching ceiling. Furniture, books, what looked like small fortune of _pots_, cauldrons, brooms, clothing in a huge towel, bottles and vials, statues, pieces of masonry, more pots and jars and ceramics, enough candles to lit the whole castle and candle sticks to match, carpets and beddings and sheets and so on and so on.

Fascinated and fully willing to let himself be distracted, Harry stepped further in, just looking. There were cabinets and endless amounts of armchairs, beds with broken legs and ends, curtains falling from a tower of desks like a waterfall of fabric. There was a cluster of crystal chandeliers hanging atop a pile of books, none of them lit but still glittering in the dim light of the hall. There was quills stuck on things and parchments sticking from the mountains of stuff and where ever he looked, there was a tea cup or a glass or a goblet standing somewhere, like dozens of people had been just drinking and had put their glasses down everywhere. And in the distance there was a shimmering, blue light.

Curious, Harry walked along the valleys of stuff, towards the distant shimmer, walking past a warlock bust with a tiara and broken cabinet, before ducking beneath a wobbly floating candle and jumping over skeleton of something that had five legs. There were other skeletons in the place too, one of which looked suspiciously like it belonged to a dragon or maybe a dinosaur, and at one point he was sue he was walking on broken shells of a dragon egg.

And then he saw it – the source of the blue light. It was originating from a enormous metal ring lying on the floor, a well of some sort, with the water level reaching just the edge of the metal walls surrounding it. Except it probably wasn't water – it was glowing and moving without any source of current and reminded him a bit of a Pensieve, but it was enormous and blue rather than silver.

Curious, Harry stepped closer, crouching down on the ring to look at the weird liquid more closely. It didn't smell like anything and when he tentatively reached out to touch it, it didn't _feel_ like anything either. He couldn't take any of the liquid from the thing, he found. It didn't just flow out of his cupped hands, but it went right through them, like it wasn't even physical. And yet, when he ran his hand through it, it caused ripples. Interesting. And so was the ring – it wasn't just smooth, but had nine weird… triangle thingies and there was symbols along the outer edge. Symbols, which looked rather familiar. Something from history, or maybe astronomy?

After moment of hesitation, Harry sat down on his knees on the ring's edge and then, taking support of the ring, leaned down until his nose touched the shimmering surface just barely. It didn't feel like anything so with a deep breath he plunged his face in, keeping his eyes open, trying to see – half expecting it to draw him into someone's memories.

Nothing. It felt a bit weird, but he couldn't see anything. Pulling back Harry drew a breath, shuddering a bit and frowning at the thing. Not a Pensieve, and not really liquid either. But it wasn't illusion either because there seemed to be nothing beneath it. What was it then? Magical mystery well which wasn't a well?

Shifting back, Harry stood up again, stuffing the invisibility cloak into his pocket as he walked around the glowing well-thing. It was then he noticed that the thing wasn't lying straight – one edge of it was balancing on top of a piece of a broken statue, giving the well thingy a tilt. Except it was definitely not a well because there was nothing but floor underneath it, and the not-water stuff wasn't flowing out. Instead it flickered inside the _ring_ like a surface without depth.

Curious, Harry took out his wand and then aimed it at the broken statue, casting a levitation charm onto it to try and tilt the not-well a bit, to see if the liquid would react. It took more than one spell to get the statue to budge, and even then he could only lift it maybe few inches, it and the circle thing – and the liquid didn't react in any way.

Unable to hold the levitation charm up, the thing was way too heavy, Harry let it go with a gasp and the piece of statue and the ring both fell back down, heavy enough to make the floor shudder and the hall echo with the impact. Wincing a bit Harry glanced around, and then up as he heard one of the near by pillars of books shifting, and barely got out of the way in time as the books started coming down in a enormous landslide of old tomes.

Quickly taking cover behind an ancient desk, Harry ducked down and covered his head, listening the books coming down in flutter of covers and pages. It lasted maybe for ten seconds before the noise stopped and he dared to look up again.

The pile of books had collapsed towards the ring with it shimmering blue stuff, bringing the mountain of books down several feet. Standing up again, Harry stared at the newly levelled pile of books before frowning a bit. From the way they had landed, lot of the books had fallen right into the ring of metal – there was a lot of books resting just on the ring, covering one of the nine triangles completely. Thew surface though was completely clear of books, and crouching down Harry could see that there were none inside either.

"Okay, that's… interesting," Harry murmured, taking a step closer. Slowly he picked one of the books, ancient thing which had at some point had purple covers and silver in the spine, before throwing it at the glowing blue liquid. It sank silently through, and crouching down again Harry could see it hadn't just fallen through the surface – there was no sign of it on the floor beneath.

It had gone somewhere else.

Sitting down on the edge of the ancient desk he had been using as a cover before, Harry took a candles stick and threw it at the blue water too. It too vanished without sound. As did the globe he threw after it, and the several other books he lobbed at it, as he tried to wrap his mind around it.

Did it destroy the things put into it?

Or maybe… send them elsewhere? Maybe it was like a water version of the floo network, except you didn't have to use the floo powder in it.

"A portal?" Harry murmured and jumped up to examine the thing more closely, to touch the water which again didn't feel like anything. It kept on shimmering calmly like nothing special was going on, like nothing had happened – like it hadn't taken the things he had thrown at it and, what? Whisked them off somewhere elsewhere.

Lifting his head, Harry turned to look at the way he had came from, recalling what he had been thinking before – how desperately he had and still wanted to just get away. Away form Hogwarts. Away from _Earth_. Could… could this be it?

Suddenly absolutely sure that the well – the portal – was there for _him_, Harry stood up, staring at the thing with mingled temptation and horror. Could he really leave magic behind? He wanted to so bad to get away from all the stupid things that made his life unbearable, but away from magic? He still liked bits of magic, he liked what magic could've been for him if it hadn't been taught by such unbearable teachers most of the time. He still wanted to learn things, things he had seen other, older magicians do. Like McGonagall's easy transfigurations and how Dumbledore could, wandlessly, make himself a seat like it was no big deal. He wanted to learn things like that too. And he liked things about magical world – he liked flying on brooms, it was still, despite the fact that his team-mates all hated him, the best thing he had ever experienced.

"I can't leave all this behind me," he murmured, looking around him at what seemed to be thousand year's worth of books and furniture and other things, broken and discarded – kind of like him – and suddenly had a urge to take it all with him. To take it away from the castle that probably didn't even know it all excited and probably wouldn't have cared if it had known.

He only managed to duck the incoming armchair by instinct, at it suddenly lunged away from a nearby pile of it's kind, and into the portal. Wide eyed, Harry lanced after it and then had to jump out of the way as the desk he had sat on earlier suddenly jumped up and into the portal. That was the start of what seemed to be a flood of incoming object, all flying towards and right into the portal, vanishing into it's depths like down a drain. It sounded almost like a earthquake, as hundreds and thousands of _things_ clattered into each other in air in growing streams furniture's and books and cauldrons and statues and everything else. The area surrounding the blue portal was emptying within few dozen seconds and then the rest following, at a faster and faster pace.

Now sprawled on the empty floor, Harry watched the flood of flying objects with wide eyes, horrified and fascinated and guilty and a bit exhilarated. Was it happening because he had wished it would? Because of him? Laughing with disbelieved delight, he carefully stood up beneath the arches of stuff that flew over his head and into the blue portal in a great clatter of wooden and metal and stone things colliding. The roar of things was getting louder as the flight of things got faster, all draining down and into who knew where.

Harry hesitated for a moment there, watching and thinking of things that could've been, of Ron and Hermione and Gryffindor. He had liked them so much, his first friends, and he would've never wanted to leave, but… they weren't his friends anymore, were they? He thought of Sirius for a moment and then sighed – he didn't even know the man, and Sirius was enjoying himself in Majorca or where ever he was. Hedwig was with Sirius right then, and hopefully would stay there, she deserved it. And anything else…

It could go to hell for all he cared.

With a mad grin, Harry jumped up and took hold of the hand rest of a armchair flying over head, and let out a whoop of exhilaration, as it too plummeted down, and into the portal.

x

**Eleventh hour**

Harry opened his eyes idly and glanced backwards and into the row of iron bars that separated him from the rest of the prison. A pair of dementors were gliding down the corridor, silent but very present, dragging with them an atmosphere of hopelessness that froze the air and covered the floor and the walls with layer of glimmering frost, making the hall outside look, for a moment, almost clean.

They glanced in his direction – as much as dementors _could_ glance at anything – before turning and continuing on their way, ignoring him. Their frost slithered through the bars and to him as well, and for a moment the floor beside him was glimmering with layer of minuscule crystals as well, but he ignored it. It would melt eventually.

It was quiet, in his wing. It always has been – though the years he had spent in the prison couldn't quite be called _always_. For as long as he had been there, in any case. At first he had thought, when he had had enough power left to think, that it was because the wing was empty and he was the only one there. That wasn't quite it, he had eventually learned when there had been a change in cell placements and for a moment he had been able to glimpse into the other cells. The wing was occupied. It was just occupied by the Kissed.

And thank Merlin for that.

Licking his dry lower lip, Harry turned his eyes away from the corridor and closed them again, breathing in deeply and then exhaling slowly. The frost was going away again, and the air was warming up – as much as it ever did here. Not that he much cared one way or the other – he had long since gotten used to the cold. It didn't bother him anymore.

Slowly, he relaxed and settled down more comfortably on the stone wall, to wait.

It had been close to three years now, he thought. He wasn't quite sure – those first months were… blurry to his memory, full of screaming and pleading and nightmares. He remembered clinging to the bars and screaming at someone, anyone, to listen to him, to look at him, to make them believe that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he didn't belong there, that please would someone sent for Albus Dumbledore, or anyone, someone, who would free him. It might've been days. It might've been months.

Of course, no one had came. Just an Auror guard, haggled and weary and tired the way everyone in Azkaban was, who hadn't believed a word of it. Back then, Harry had thought it was because the Auror was a fool, because Azkaban was supposedly unbreakable, because the man was just blind. He knew better now.

The spells on the bars separating him from his freedom were _very_ good. Subtle, unnoticeable, and engineered against suspicion – making whoever was on the corridor side not believe a sound, sight or smell coming from the inside. Every word Harry spoke then, and now, seemed like lies to whoever was there to listen, and even his appearance was nothing but fallacy to them, no matter how he tried to show his scar, his green eyes, his black hair.

Breathing in deeply again – slowly, steadily – and then out, Harry examined the emotions he had felt back then and before. He could remember them so well, the hopelessness, the helpless fury, the frustration, the sheer, utter misery. So much pain, making him dizzy and weak. And the dementors, always outside his door, feasting on the surprise treat in a wing, where there was no emotion for them to feed upon.

It all felt very distant now. How frustration had turned into sense of betrayal, and how he had cherished it, breathing into it and out of it like trying to keep a flickering flame going. It had kept him going for a while, but very badly – the dementors always chased the fire away, leaving him weak and whimpering on the floor, only to rekindle that little fire inside him when they were finally gone. It had helped, but not much.

The knowledge of his own innocence had helped more. Sirius had been his teacher there, speaking from memory how the knowledge of his own innocence had kept him going. But more than that it had been the truth that had kept Harry alive, those first months before he had figured a better way. That he wasn't supposed to be there, that this wasn't meant to be, that had kept him sane.

Up until he had seen the glimpse of the Kissed.

Even now, so many months later, he could still remember it so clearly – how _well_ they all had looked. Not thin or withered like he had been at the time – they weren't skin and bones, no. One couldn't call them fat or perfectly healthy, no, but they had been all _full_, their cheeks hadn't been hollow, their eyes not sunken. Because unlike him at the time, the dementors' powers couldn't touch them, or drain them.

People without souls didn't have emotions to feed upon.

There was a soft rustling sound and Harry opened his eyes just in time to see flutter of white wings outside the small window. Then Hedwig was already there, landed on the outer window sill with a letter and a news paper in her talons, looking tired and ruffled but triumphant as she looked down upon him.

"Punctual as always," Harry commented and stood up from where he sat, walking over. She preened and clicked her beak at him as he relieved her burden, glancing at the letter and then at the newspaper. "Did he give this to you?" he asked, wondering if the newspaper was current – if it was from that very morning.

She clicked her beak once before squirming inside through the bars, shaking herself and then taking to wing, gliding over to the corner where the dishes of his last meal sat, to drink whatever little water remained in his cup. Harry glanced at her and then turned to the letter, tearing one side open and then pulling out the small sheet of paper inside. It only had three words in it.

_'It is finished.'_

Blinking slightly, Harry put the paper away and turned to the newspaper instead, opening it slowly. The entire front page was taken over by title, written with letters longer than his fingers; _"THE DARK LORD KILLED AT KNOCTURN ALLEY."_

The following article was long, but only had very little information all together. All the reporters knew was that the Dark Lord's body had been found in the Knockturn alley in the night before, beheaded with several stab wounds all over his torso. There was no sign of the attacker, no witnesses, no evidence as to who had done it, only that the weapon it had been done with had been laced by extremely powerful poisons and that the death, despite the severity of the injuries, had been quick.

The connected articles were much more interesting, detailing how in the past year or so, variety of death eaters had been found in more or less same conditions, some stabbed, some killed by spells, many beheaded. The Lestranges who had broken out of Azkaban three years ago, the Malfoys, the Carrows, and many others, including one Peter Pettigrew whose discovery had caused the greatest fuss and relieved one Sirius Black from all charges.

Lastly, but not leastly, a whole spread was dedicated to the disappearance of Harry Potter in the spring of 1995, when the Triwizard Cup, having been turned into a Portkey by persons unknown, had whisked him and Cedric Diggory away. Diggory had been found dead later, but Harry Potter himself had been missing since – it was believed to have been done by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters but no one knew for sure.

"Finished," Harry murmured and nodded. Folding the paper, he turned to the bars and then took a cautious step towards them, reaching out tentatively. The usual hum of magic, which had kept him imprisoned for so long, was still there, but not quite as strong. The spells Voldemort had laid on the bars was fading, fracturing. Soon, they'd be all gone.

Soon, he'd be free.

Nodding again to himself, Harry walked to the slate of rough wood which was his bed, and turned it over, to reveal bundle of leather beneath. Rolling it open, he glanced over the tools he had there – nothing very major: his broken glasses, a stolen wand, and most importantly a note book, mostly empty of pages now, and the muggle pen.

Taking the latter two out, Harry opened the book and wrote down a few lines. _'Well done. I thank you for your cooperation over the last year, and for your diligence. You have been a priceless ally.'_

"Hedwig? Will you deliver this to him? It'll be the last one," Harry said, neatly tearing the page from the book and folding it couple of times, writing _'to whom it concerns' _on top of it. The owl gave him a look and then flew over, to take the piece of paper from him. With a smile, he lifted her up to his arms and carried her over to the window, where she wiggled through the bars again. With ruffle of her feathers, she prepared for another flight through the wards of Azkaban, and to whoever had been Harry's anonymous partner thorough the whole ordeal.

But it was finished now. Voldemort was dead.

"I wonder if he ever saw this coming," Harry mused, looking outside and down to the rocky outlay of the island, and to the stormy ocean beyond. Voldemort had locked Harry up in Azkaban and prevented anyone from believing him or helping him, thinking that his emotions and weakness for Dementors would drive him mad and give him existence worse than death. Had he known about the visions he had been giving Harry all these years, making him aware of any and all of his plans? Probably not.

He certainly couldn't have expected the lessons Azkaban had taught Harry.

Taking the newspaper again, Harry sat on the floor with his ankles crossed, and read through it slowly, not just the articles about the Dark Lord and his regime, but the rest of it. It had been a long while since he had gotten any news of the outside world that didn't come through Voldemort, so whatever the paper could offer was very welcome. Most of it was about the war, and about the unseen assassin who had dealt with the Death Eaters and now the Dark Lord as well, wondering about who he was and where he had came from and how could he be so accurate and successful when all of Ministry's own forces had failed.

No mention of his participation in the success, of course, but there wouldn't be. His information to the assassin no more than the assassin himself would ever see the day of light. And if anyone deserved any credit, it was Hedwig – the owl was the only one who had found him, who had helped him, bringing him his meagre tools, even going as far as risking her own demise to steal him a wand. Her contribution was immeasurable.

But it was better for all of it to go unmentioned. If the assassin wanted fame, he could go and get it. Harry didn't care one way or the other, now that everything was completed. All he wanted now, was to wait for the spells on the bars to break and to get out. Out of his cell, out of Azkaban, out and… away. Just somewhere, preferably somewhere without magic.

Once, he might've wanted to return home, to his friends, to Sirius, to someplace familiar.

That was before he had sacrificed his emotions for survival.

x

The spells on the bars broke early the next morning, and magic rushed into the cell like a tidal wave, surrounding Harry and making him nearly choke. All that he had been missing in the last three years was back, and it very nearly overwhelmed him, making his whole body tingle as if his circulation had been cut and now blood was flowing to all of his extremities. It was disconcerting and rather uncomfortable – and more than welcome.

Shaking a little under the force of the rush of magic, Harry reached for his stolen wand with trembling fingers and smothered a gasp at the feel of it, the warmth of the handle, the sparkle of _something_ beneath the wood. It wasn't his wand, and the connection was far from perfect, but it was there and it was readily available to him as he lifted the wand to cast a cleaning charm on himself, vanishing away three years worth of filth from his body. The charm ran over him like a razor, very nearly cutting his skin, but the sensation of cleanliness it left behind was well appreciated.

With another spell, he fixed his glasses with a wave and then enlargened the old school robes he was still wearing, ridding them off Hogwarts and Gryffindor emblems and making them into something like respectable. He did the same to his shoes, which he hadn't been wearing for years, and though the charm left them slightly too big, he pulled them on nonetheless, much preferring them to walking out of the prison bare footed.

And with that done and wearing his glasses for the first time in a long while, he was finished. Leaving behind the pen and the book, he turned to the wall of iron bars. The lock was simple and ancient – Azkaban relied more on the spells than on locks – and it opened easily at one single _Alohamora_, leaving him free to step out of the cell.

It was strange, to walk out, past the other cells where the soulless prisoners either lay, or sat, or stood or did any number of the mindless exercises the Auror guards of the prison had them occasionally do, to keep them alive. Not one of them paid any attention to him, and when he rounded a corner and ran into a pair of Dementors, they passed him by without a glance – to them he was as mindless as the Kissed.

The only thing that could stop him here were the Auror guards, and he wasn't all that worried about them. They'd be busy with the news, secure in the knowledge that their prison was tightly guarded and safe – which it wasn't of course, but the staff of Azkaban had never been very diligent, much rather putting their trust in the Dementors and their weakening effect.

Still, Harry erred on the side of caution once he was out of the wing where the Kissed were kept. He listened, he waited until he was sure he was alone, and only then he made his way downwards, down the stairs towards the exit. Outside the air was cold, wet, and it soon tore at his robes as the wind caught the hem, but he didn't mind it in the least. After the stagnation of the prison, the feel of the elements was almost freeing.

"_Accio nearest flying broomstick_," Harry chanted and then waited as the spell took effect. He hadn't paid much mind to the question where the broom would come from, certain that it would come from _somewhere_, and wasn't all that surprised when it came from somewhere in the prison, racing towards him wildly and nearly colliding with his midriff before he caught it. Whoever owned the broom hadn't been servicing it, it's bristles stuck to every which way, but he didn't mind.

It flew well enough, carrying him across the island and then over the ocean surrounding it. He would've kept on flying over the shore and just _somewhere_, if it hadn't been for a familiar flash of white beneath, racing towards him. Hedwig reached his side with few strong wing beats, circled him once, and then dived down again, towards the shore – and towards a cloaked person there.

Blinking, Harry peered down before directing the broom handle down as well, and following his owl. As he approached, the cloaked person lifted his hood, and with a surprise Harry saw a familiar face beneath.

"Potter," Severus Snape said almost calmly, as Harry touched down to the rocky shore.

"Snape," Harry answered, while Hedwig landed on his shoulder. "You're my assassin."

"Hm," his former potions professor agreed with a nod. "You're not surprised."

"When I sent Hedwig out the first time, I asked her to take the information to someone who not just could, but would use it," Harry answered, supporting the broom against his shoulder. "I never made much of a effort to wonder who, in the end, received it, but there are only so many people in the magical world who _would_." He eyed the older wizard thoughtfully, taking in the differences. Snape had a scar across his nose and there was some damage to his left eye, though he seemed to still be able to see through it. He looked older, but fitter somehow. And no wonder, if he had performed all the assassinations Harry had guided him to.

"You're not surprised either," Harry commented. "About my being here."

"I knew you were the one behind the information from the start, your owl gave it away. And I knew where you were," Snape answered, glancing towards the direction of the prison. "I couldn't do anything about what I knew, however. Voldemort had all his death eaters under vows to keep it to themselves. Good thing for you, he never considered the possibility that you could still act from the prison, or that someone could act on your behalf."

Harry nodded slowly. "Why did you, though?" he asked. Voldemort had always been suspicious about Snape, but Harry had never known for sure which side the man was, before this. And even if he was on Dumbledore's side, why do this? Why not just ignore Harry, or take the missives to Dumbledore himself? Why follow them through, considering everything? There had been no love lost between them, as far as he could remember.

Snape looked at him steadily. "Because the person who wrote those letters wasn't the brat I remembered. Because your information was accurate, your plans nearly foolproof. Because I knew that if I didn't, someone less fitting for the job would. And because I wanted to."

Harry considered that and nodded. "Alright," he said. "Why are you here now?"

"Originally, I came to help you out – now that the Dark Lord is dead, his spells should be also. But I see there's no need for that, now," the potions master confessed, considering him. "What do you plan to do now? I can escort you to the Order Headquarters if you'd like." There was a hint of his old familiar sneer when he added, "They'll be happy to see you alive. Most don't believe you are, anymore."

"I know. Let them think that," Harry answered, shaking his head. "I don't intend to return – I have no urge to. It is easier all around for them to continue thinking I am dead, and for me to avoid the hassle that would follow of my return."

Snape eyed him for a moment, and then nodded slowly. "What happened, Potter?" he asked then. "Two years in prison and then you start acting – and now this? What changed?" _and what kept from going insane_ wasn't said, but Harry could see the question in the man's eyes.

Harry smiled faintly at that and shook his head. "There is a way to survive Azkaban without going mad," he answered. "It took me almost a year to manage to rid myself of the things that made me weak to Dementors, but I managed it. I had to, I wouldn't have survived if I hadn't," he answered. "I'm not even sure how I did it in the end, but it worked. And after that things were… different." He said, for the lack of better a word.

The elder wizard frowned at that, looking at him intently for a moment before his eyes widened a bit. Harry blinked idly, wondering if the man had tried Legilimency on him – he hadn't felt a thing. It didn't matter, though – whatever the man saw in him apparently brought the truth home. "Oh, my god," the man murmured, and shuddered. "No wonder those letters were so…" he swallowed and then gave Harry a look. "You do know that what you did to yourself, you can probably never undo."

"I know," Harry answered. "But you'll understand it when I say that I don't really care."

"No, you wouldn't, of course not," the potions master muttered with a grimace and looked away. "What do you plan to do now, Potter?"

"I plan to make my way to Diagon Alley, empty my Gringotts account, perhaps get a new wand and new set of clothing, and then I will leave," Harry answered. "I remember wanting to do that before, desperately wanting it, so that's I will do. It won't be the same, of course, but perhaps on the way I will find a purpose for myself."

Snape looked for a moment like he was about to argue but then he nodded. "Very well. I can accompany you to Diagon alley if you'd like. There are some things I would like to know about the Dark Lord, the locations of his hideouts, his secret libraries and storages… they could be useful. Since you knew the locations of his Horcruxes and how to get to them, you must know the rest too."

"I do," Harry agreed, glancing between the man and the broom he had stolen from Azkaban. "I don't suppose you have a broom of your own," he commented.

"No, but I can Side-Along Apparate you to Diagon Alley – though you might want to reconsider it. People are celebrating, so the alley will be very busy."

"All the better to hide my identity, in that crowd," Harry answered, and dropped the stolen broom.

In the next two hours, while Harry made his way to Gringotts, where a blood test confirmed him as Harry Potter, owner of the vault 687. While Harry had the Goblins transfer half of the magical money into gold bars and the rest half into various muggle currencies, Harry headed out with a handful of coins, and to Ollivander's store, to get a better fitting wand. For the whole while, Snape followed after him, hurriedly writing down all Harry explained about Voldemort's hide outs and secret storages.

Ollivander went slightly wide eyed when Harry, with his shoulder length hair and scarred forehead hidden beneath the hood of his robes, walked in. The man said nothing though, just started to hurriedly offer him variety of wands, his eyes growing ever wider as Harry instructed Snape on how to break the locks, the wards, the security charms and the traps in this or that place, with Snape nodding, writing it all down, asking occasional question about which angle to come at this or that security measure and whether or not it would be safer to use a golem of some sort to trigger some trap first.

"Every fitting is of course perfectly confidential and I will not speak of this meeting to a soul, Mr. Potter, but I must ask," Ollivander said when finally, a sycamore wand with a phoenix feather core, chose Harry. "Where have you been all this time?"

Harry didn't bother to answer, only paid the requested seven galleons for the wand, and then headed out – to visit a store that sold trunks, bags and such, some of which were larger on the inside and had several compartments. Harry browsed through the shop idly, before choosing a rigid leather suitcase with wheels on one corner. It had six un-enlargened compartments with separate sets of locks and zippers, and hopefully it would be enough to carry his money in it, as well as a set of clothing. With the suitcase, he and Snape returned to Gringotts, where the transfer of his goods was complete.

"You do understand that with your vault completely empty, you lose the ownership?" The goblin handling the transfer asked with a sneer.

"I did not know that, but it is fine," Harry answered while filling his new suitcase compartment by compartment, two of them completely taken over by the gold bars while two more had variety of muggle bills in neat stacks. Stuffing a wad of twenty pound notes into his pocket, Harry closed the suitcase and set it onto the floor, satisfied to find that the lightening charms held, and the fact that it was carrying several stones worth of gold didn't make it any heavier.

He turned to Snape, who had been watching the transfer silently. "With this I'm finished," Harry said. "Next I'll be heading to the muggle world. We've already covered all of what I know about the hideouts; is there anything else you would like to know?"

"No," Snape answered, considering him thoughtfully. "You don't intend to return to the magical world at all, Potter?"

"Perhaps one day I might. Right now I cannot say," Harry answered calmly. "If you'd like I can send you a word if I do."

Snape nodded. "Well then," he said. "It has been an experience to work for you."

"Likewise," Harry answered, and with that their partnership, such as it had been, was over. With a nod Snape turned and left, while Harry locked the suitcase's many zippers, and then turned to leave as well, leave both Gringotts, and the wizarding world behind him.

xx

I've been so off my game lately it's not even funny. There might've been something behind these ideas which might've been interesting, but I ruined them by writing. So, yeah. This is example of me being crappy.

I don't know where my groove's gone, but I seriously need it back. Then I could take the idea of Voldemort throwing Harry to Azkaban without anyone realising it and do something useful with it. Or the idea of Harry stumbling upon the Room of Requirement and it supplying him randomly with a Stargate, except that time I wouldn't make it... _this._

I apologise for the lack of groove.


	56. Culture of Amenities

Warnings: AU ending to the fourth year, some oocness

**Culture of Amenities**

"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked quietly, as Ron came down from the boy's dormitories alone. The rest of the house had more or less headed out already, to enjoy their last breakfast with the other two schools – Beauxbatons carriages and Durmstrang ships would be leaving later that day, and she didn't want to miss any of her chances of seeing Victor before it would be too late. But… as things were, she didn't want Harry to be alone either, not after what he had been through.

"Not coming, apparently. Not sure if he even realises it's morning," Ron answered, scratching his temple with a frown and glancing towards the dormitories. "I don't think he slept at all last night."

"What?" Hermione asked, standing up. "He's not sleeping? But… I thought Madam Pomfrey gave him a batch of Dreamless Sleep."

"She did, and he still has it," Ron shrugged. "I don't think sleeplessness is the problem, really. He's just… thinking too much. When I went to bed last night, he was just sitting on his bed, staring at the thing and he's still in that exact same position – I don't think he's moved at all."

"The thing? What thing?"

"The winnings," the redhead answered. "You know, he offered all of it and then half of it to the Diggorys but they declined. Since then the sack's just been sitting on his bed and he keeps looking at it like it's going to explode."

"Oh," Hermione said and sighed, running a hand over her face. She – and pretty much everyone, really – had been giving Harry time and space in the hopes that he'd sort it all out in his own head, what happened, what he had seen, what he was going to do about it. Harry always did, always had, since the first year. But it had been days now, with all of them walking on their tip toes around him, and if this was where it was going… Maybe walking on their tiptoes wasn't what Harry needed.

"I'm going to go talk to him," she decided. She'd try and jolt him back to living, and if not then at least she'd drag him to get something to eat. And maybe she'd have Hedwig take the Tri-Wizard Tournament winnings to Gringotts, to be added to Harry's vault – if the money wasn't in view, maybe Harry would stop thinking about it so much.

"You sure it's a good idea? He's been… weird," Ron said a bit nervously. "I mean, not bad weird but just… I'm not sure if we should bother him."

"We can apologise later. We're his friends, and whatever worrying him so much, we ought to try and help," Hermione said, and then walked pass him. Ron hesitated for a moment, before squaring his shoulders and coming after her as she headed up the stairs and to the boy's dormitories.

Harry was, just as Ron had said, sitting on his bed, staring at the Ministry logo emblazoned sack of galleons. Hermione glanced at it, wincing a bit – the thing was huge, but then, thousand galleons in one sack, it was bound to be huge. Could Hedwig carry it? Maybe with few of the school owl's… and if not, then maybe she could ask one of the teachers to take it.

"Harry," she started, pausing to see if he heard her and then frowning when he didn't as much as twitch. "Harry," she said, a bit louder. "It's time to head down for breakfast."

Nothing. He was just staring at the sack, his elbows resting on the knees of his crossed legs, staring as if the sack of gold held the answers to every question he had. How long had he been like this – since yesterday, really? Glancing at Ron, Hermione got an awkward, uneasy shrug from the redhead which only worried her further.

"Harry," Hermione tried again. Again nothing, so she drew a breath, "Harry!"

That got a reaction. The black-haired boy winced a bit and then glanced up. "What?" he asked, and then blinked, glancing around himself. "Oh. Where is everyone?"

"At breakfast. What are you doing?" Hermione asked, relaxing a bit but not completely. Something about Harry's voice was off. It was… tense, and yet flippant.

"Thinking," Harry answered, and looked at the sack of gold again, making Hermione almost wish she could easily lift the thing just so that she could swipe it off the bed and maybe throw it into the furthest corner of the room. Harry didn't go back into his weird trance, though, and instead spoke. "What's the exchange value of a galleon? To muggle money, that is."

"It's about fifty pounds per galleon, why?" Hermione asked, confused.

"So, this is worth fifty thousand pounds," Harry answered, poking at the sack of gold. "Do you know how many galleons I own? I've never counted, but this much wouldn't even show in my vault. So I'd say I got hundred times as much as this."

"That's about right, I guess," Hermione murmured, embarrassed – not that she'd ever admit it, but she had calculated the approximate amount of money Harry had, after having seen his vault, by judging the area of the mounds of gold. The diameter of the mounds, the height… Harry probably did have a hundred thousand galleons, or very nearly as much. Which, when changed to muggle money, made Harry a multimillionaire. And that was just the mound of Galleons she had seen – there had been separate mounds for sickles and knuts.

What that had to do with anything though…

"So you got money," Ron said from the side, frowning. "What about it?"

Harry glanced up, but he didn't seem to be really seeing them. "It's a lot of money. Money I've never done much with – I only ever take about twenty galleons out when ever I go in, and it's usually enough to last me a year." He blinked and looked at the sack. "I was thinking about giving this away," he said, poking at the sack again. "Since the Diggorys didn't want it, I was going to give it to George and Fred, so that they'd turn it into laughs, because I think we're going to run short of laughs pretty soon. But then I got to thinking…"

He trailed away, biting his lower lip and then shaking his head and turning away from the money, to face them. "Voldemort is back, and he's already got a power base to stand on," he said, glancing at them and smiling grimly when they both flinched a bit at the sound of the name. "There's a war coming," he continued. "And laughs… laughs won't protect anyone. They won't save anyone."

"Oh," Hermione murmured, and then looked at the sack of galleons again, now having inkling about what Harry was thinking about. She had thought it was about Cedric and yeah that would've made sense – but Harry had never been the type to linger, mourning the past. No, this made much more sense. And more than.

"Money will, though?" Ron asked slowly.

"Well, not money. They got money too, and they didn't win the last time around, though from what I've heard it got bit close," Harry said, his smile growing a bit crooked. "But the things you can get with money might save people," he added, and looked at them. "There's a war coming," he said again, slower and then frowned. "No, that's not right. We're already _in_ a war."

"And you think you could make a difference, with money," Hermione said, coming closer and sitting down beside him. "What are you going to do? The Ministry doesn't admit anything at all happened, Ce… Cedric's death's been classified as a horrible _accident_."

"Yeah. That's the thing, isn't it?" Harry said, frowning. "That's what I was thinking about. If everything was like it ought to be, I could just throw my galleons at the Ministry, at the Aurors, and they'd use it to fight, to help people protect themselves, they'd do something… but they won't," he trailed away and shrugged. "So I guess I have to do something else."

"Like what?" Ron asked, coming closer too and crouching down beside the bed. "Give it to Dumbledore? He's got some sort of thing going on, doesn't he? What with Sirius and all."

"There is that, but…" Harry hesitated. "I asked Sirius about it – what it was last time around and…" he grimaced. "The Order, whatever it is, doesn't sound very well organised. They had lot of people, but from what I could gather they didn't do much. And I want to do _something_."

"Like what?" Hermione asked, glancing at Ron.

"Well. That depends," Harry shrugged and looked at them. "Would you two like to start an army with me?"

x

Ron hovered in the corridor, biting his thumbnail deep in thought, still going through Harry's rather simple but also rather complex plans in his mind. It was all _mad_ in the way only Harry Potter could be, but it was also a sort of brilliant madness that had an odd sort of appeal. Most mad things Harry came up with did, but this… this was _huge_. If they could get it going, it'd be enormous.

There was a clatter of wood, murmur of talking and then the door across the corridor opened. Lowering his hand, the redhead watched as the sixth year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws filed out of the History of Magic classroom. He didn't know most of them, having seen few around the Gryffindor Tower but never having talked to them, but it didn't much matter. He was there only for two people.

"Fred, George, hey," he called at the sight of is older brothers and stepped closer as the two came out of the classroom. Fred had several lines of backwards writing on his left cheek and George's hair was sticking up on the side – apparently, they had both been asleep, they were certainly yawning wide enough for it. They didn't seem all that alert even when they noticed him.

"Ronniekins," Fred said, stretching. "Here to see his most beloved older brothers, how touching. What can we do for your, dear little brother?"

"But, just so you know, if it's something illegal, it will cost you your arm and possibly quarter of your leg," George added, rubbing his eye. "Or a kidney," he amended, making his twin glance at him confusedly. "Easier to sell," he explained, to which Fred nodded in solemn understanding.

"I've got to talk to you, if you're not too busy," Ron said, glancing around. "Alone," he added, at the sight of Lee Jordan who was standing near by, waiting for his brothers.

"Ooh, I am sensing troubles," George said, grinning.

"Ronniekins is having Prob-lems," Fred agreed, stretching the last word out almost gleefully, before he and George took Ron between them. "Go on, Lee. We have brotherly duties to attend to," he called, to which the dark skinned boy waved a hand and headed on.

"So, what ails you, o brother of ours, and how might we aid you in your time of trouble?" George asked, while they headed away, and towards abandoned part of the corridor.

"Might it be girl troubles? Because we have some very extensive knowledge on that score, as well as many… guidebooks, if you know what I mean," Fred agreed, making Ron very nearly choke.

"Ah, no, thanks all the same, that's not it," he said hurriedly and after checking to see that there was no one around, he looked at his elder brothers seriously. "It's Harry," he started and then wasn't sure how to continue.

"Is he in trouble?" George asked, frowning.

"Is he _being_ trouble?" Fred asked almost at the same time.

"Because if he is, I got to tell you; resourceful we might be, but going against the Boy Who Lived, we are not properly equipped for."

"Or stupid enough," Fred added.

"That either," George nodded.

"He's going to war with You-Know-Who," Ron said, before they could go on further.

"Well, duh?" George answered, confused. "I thought that was petty much given."

"With what You-Know-Who being back and Harry being the Boy Who Lived. Twice, even," Fred added.

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean…" Ron hesitated and then sighed. "He wants to start an army," he said and then lifted a hand before they could interrupt. "Actual army, not like some study group with a nifty name. You have any idea how much money he has? He's going to be taking that, and using it to get stuff, hire people, and he's going to _go to war_ with You-Know-Who." He paused for a moment to look at the twins, to make sure they were hearing what he was saying. "Harry," he said slowly, "Is going to start – no, he's going to _create_ an army."

"Oh," Fred said slowly, his expression growing serious.

"Okay," George added, taking a seat from nearby windowsill and blinking. "Okay. Well. He's the Boy Who Lived. If he wants to start an army, I think he's got every right to," he added. "Especially considering what happened and all. What's been happening, since like… his birth and all."

"Does he want us to join or something?" Fred asked, looking at Ron thoughtfully. "Or… No, I'm thinking he didn't send you, doesn't probably even know you're here. Why are you here, Ron? Shouldn't you be keeping this close to vest?"

"Well, yes, but, um…" Ron frowned and then shoved his hands into his pockets. "See, the thing with Harry is that he gets these awesome ideas and they're mad and brilliant, right, and they usually work out too, but they only do it _barely_, and he usually gets out of the situations he gets into only by the skin of his teeth," he said. "And this is… really serious stuff."

"Aand?" his brothers prodded in eerie unison.

"And I'm going to back him up with this, as much as I can, and Hermione is too, of course, she and Harry are already sketching out _budgets_ and stuff. But… you know," Ron shrugged and then looked at them seriously and then sighing. "Harry is probably going to come to you two, sooner or later, because he's got these ideas already but he doesn't know how to make them. Like… weapons and shields and stuff like that. But I was kind of hoping that before that… you could teach me."

"Teach you?" Fred asked blankly.

"Yeah. That… you know, the thing you do. I mean… Hermione and Harry are good, but they don't always get magic completely – it's like it's… they think it just _is_, you know? Like it's just a thing," Ron said. "And that's not it. Not always. You get that, everyone who grew up with magic gets it – I get it, but. You know." He shrugged, not really sure what he was trying to say. That _thing_ about magic, which was so obvious to most people, but which both Harry and Hermione didn't really get yet, because even though they were both academically better than Ron himself was, they didn't have the experience.

To them magic was a _thing_. And maybe they even though the thing was part of them, that they were part of the thing, but that wasn't always it. Ron got it, better than they did if he said so himself, but unlike Fred and George who were both shoulder deep _in it_, he didn't know how to utilise… it. Whatever it was.

The thing that let his dad so easily turn a muggle car into magical one. That made Bill so attuned with magical wards. That made Charlie almost able to communicate with dragons. The thing which made Fred and George so good at _making_ things.

"Oh, I get it," George said, and he and Fred shared a look, the sort of look they had been sharing for as long as Ron could remember, the knowing looks.

"Four years of magic and now he wants to learn," Fred agreed solemnly and then looked at Ron. "It's not that easy, though. You can't just go snapping your fingers and then you suddenly get it. It takes time. It took us years."

"Then I ought to start as soon as I can, right?" Ron asked uneasily and then sighed. "Harry's going to fight a war, Hermione's already being great help to him. I just want to _do_ something, you know."

"Yeah, we get it," Fred said, glancing at George who nodded.

"We'll see if we can figure out something to give you a bit of a head start on this," the other twin agreed. "In the mean while, though…"

"I think we ought to go and offer our services to your war-mongering friend," Fred nodded thoughtfully. "Weapons and shields you say. Seems interesting."

"You wouldn't happen to know if he'd be willing to pay us for our oh so valuable services?"

"I'm pretty sure you've already been written into the budget," Ron snorted, his shoulders loosening with relief. It wasn't much yet, it might not pan out to be _anything_ in a while. But it was something. He was doing something.

x

Alastor grunted to himself in irritation as he polished his glass eye, for what felt like the hundredth time. The impostor had done something to the damned thing; it didn't sit right in its socket anymore. He wasn't sure what it was – maybe it had been enlargened, or shrunk a bit? Whatever it was, it got _stuck_ and wouldn't turn properly.

And he had a feeling he would need a full sphere of vision very soon. Not that it had helped him much with the damned Crouch boy, but he had been caught unawares. That's what a man got, for letting his guard slip. Not that he had been doing himself any favours, when he had stopped training properly few years back. Well, there'd be a chance to that, as soon as he got out of the damned castle and its damned infirmary.

Poppy had not grown into the sweet lady they had imagined her to grow up into, back when they had been in Hogwarts. That witch had a steel pair, and no mistake.

There was a sound and Alastor froze in the middle of his polishing. The hospital ward was mostly empty now, the girl with a cold having been sent to her dungeon earlier that day, and with Potter out of the wing there weren't that many visitors. Not that there shouldn't have been anyone there right then, with it being very nearly the middle of the night.

With a frown, Alastor plopped the eye to its place and gave the surrounding room a thorough glance. Nothing, except…

"I can see you there – invisibility cloaks don't much work on me. Come out," he demanded, wand already at hand. He knew that cloak – the only reason he could see through it now was because James Potter had loaned the thing to him once, and Alastor has managed to modify his eye to see through it. Still, even with his modifications, he couldn't quite tell who was beneath it, but then, considering the cloak…

"Well, I wasn't really trying to hide," Potter said, taking the cloak off as he walked into the ward, folding the silvery material over his arm. "Except from Snape, nearly ran into him out there," he added, and gave Alastor a shrug.

"What are you doing out of your tower, Potter? Shouldn't you be in bed?" Alastor demanded, wand still at hand. He had been fooled by polyjuice before, and though the likelihood someone using _Potter_ as a disguise to get to him was rather slim – Poppy would've been better candidate – there was always that possibility.

"Can't sleep. Too much stuff to do, only so much of the school year left. I figured I'd have easier time having a chat with you now, rather than during the holidays. You mind if I sit?" the boy asked, and sat down without waiting for permission. "I know that you weren't our teacher last year, you don't much know me and I don't know much about you – but I know your reputation. They say you're the best."

"Were. Been a while since I retired," Alastor admitted, very aware of the last year, spent locked away in a bloody trunk of all things.

"Wasn't talking about you being an Auror," Potter said, shaking his head.

"Not the best fighter either. Wouldn't bet on me against Voldemort, and Albus would be able to wipe the floor with me," Alastor grinned and then frowned. "What are you after, boy?"

Potter gave him a look and then leaned forward a bit. "Okay, to the point then. I've got a vault full of gold and a mighty grudge against Voldemort and his people, and I am going to so something about that. What I'm aiming at is to start an army."

That brought the ex-Auror up short for a bit. He had been expecting the boy to maybe ask for help, for tips, maybe ever for training, but this? This was new. "Albus already has that covered, kid you don't need to get all self important," Alastor scoffed, eying the boy closely.

"No. Sirius told me about the Order and to me it doesn't sound much like an army. More of a… club of random people, really," Potter said. "I'm sure what you did was all you could, but what I want is not just people. What I want are fighters. No. _Soldiers_. Soldiers who can work and fight together, and who get results. I'm willing to hire people, to pay for their equipment, their weapons, their gear, their training, anything and everything that might be useful so as long as I have enough money for it." He paused. "I have no intention of sitting down and waiting for Voldemort to get powerful while I do nothing. I am going to be ready, when the time comes."

"Hm," Alastor answered, eyes narrowed, magical eye staring squarely at the boy. He was serious. Merlin in his grave, Potter was _dead_ serious. "Okay. So you want to start an army. You think you can?"

"Well, if I can hire the right people," Potter answered, giving him a pointed look. "Mind you, I'm just doing some research here, now. Charting out the possibilities, and the potential. They say you're the best – the best soldier the last war produced – and I think I could use that. If not, well. There are others."

Alastor snorted and folded his arms. Interesting, very interesting. The kid was reaching a bit, too far, too soon, and would only get into a whole load of trouble if he really tried to go at it like this. But… Unlike Albus, it seemed like the kid was actually willing to do it. Albus wanted to manage the war, to avoid it, to smooth down and hope it went away, but Potter wanted to fight it.

"You remind me of your mother, you know," Alastor said, unable to help himself. Lily had been a firecracker, and damn if she had ever wanted to go to war. How Albus had convinced her not to, Alastor had no idea. Especially not after she had gotten pregnant – it had been like she had tapped unknown resources of sheer battle lust back then, and at times Alastor had seriously thought that the whole war would've been won if Albus had just set the woman loose. Her and Molly.

"It's not going to be as easy as that. Wars are tricky, kid, and no plan survives the first encounter," Alastor continued. "You need to do more than throw money around, and every vault is finite. You need to be smart too and devious. And if you want to win, you need to be ruthless and maybe a bit cruel. Evil, too. Do you think you have that in you?"

"If I don't yet, I'm betting I'll learn," Potter answered with a shake of his head. "So…?"

The ex-Auror thought about it for a moment and then nodded. "Who you got in on this?"

"Not many yet," Potter admitted. "Sirius probably will join, he's not happy with what Dumbledore has planned for him. I'm hoping Professor Lupin might join too. Aside from that, it's just me and some of my friends."

"Black and Lupin, definitely," Alastor agreed. The things those two had came up with James during the last war… it was pity Albus had never let any of them use the ideas, the devices. "I need to think about this, but I think I can add few others. First things first, though."

"Yes?" Potter asked, perking up a bit.

"That load of money you got? Use some of it to buy an estate. And I mean an _estate_, with as large grounds as you can manage. House would be useful too, but not required – tents are easy and not that expensive to get," Alastor said. "But you will need land, preferably out of sight, someplace you can ward up without causing any problems with the locals," he gave the boy a look. "Think you can manage that?"

"I think so," Potter admitted thoughtfully. "It'll take a chunk of my finances though. Probably a big one."

"Then figure a way to get more. You're going to need every knut," Alastor said, and stood up. "Though, I'm thinking spoils of war will do you nicely, in the end."

The kid frowned. "Spoils of war?"

"You'll learn about it sooner or later. Have that smart friend of yours to research it, the girl, what's her name," Alastor said and grinned ferociously. "Though let me tell you; I've never wanted anything as much as to successfully raid the Malfoy estate. It would've set me up for life."

Potter nodded slowly, thoughtful look about his face. "Where are you going?" he asked, as Alastor reached for his cloak.

Alastor grunted. "Out of here. Lots to do, with this war on and all. Send me a word when you got that estate, and I'll join you there, hopefully with some friends."

"I'll do that," Potter promised.

x

Sirius sniffed the air and made a face. The air seemed to smell worse and worse the further into the house they got.

"Are you sure about this?" Remus asked quietly as he followed the dog animagus around the Grimmauld Place. They were – well, Sirius was, Remus was mostly just following – scouring through the rooms, pocking into trunks and closets, sneering quietly at the mementos of his now dead family while trying to see if there was anything useful lying around.

The place was filthy in a way it hadn't been when he had last seen it. And it wasn't just the dust – there was some odd quality to everything now, like everything was wrong, and yes, maybe that was partially his own, faulty perception thanks to years spent in Azkaban… but he preferred to think that what he was seeing in the crooked furniture and torn curtains was his mother's last years of utter madness, staining the place like layer of grime.

"Is this really a good idea, all of this?" Remus asked, eying a near by cabinet strangely. "Any of it?"

"Probably not. But I trust the kid more than I trust anyone else at this point," Sirius admitted, eying his fingers after having brief his father's liquor cabinet open and then wiping them to the front of his robes. "Hard not to, after what he and Hermione did for me, and that without even knowing me. Harry's plan is mad, but… it's a good sort of mad."

"Dumbledore has a plan too," Remus pointed out.

Sirius laughed. "Yeah. The exact same one he had the last time around. Where did that get us, again?" he asked pointedly, glancing at his friend. "Besides the man wants to lock me up for the rest of my life to _protect me_. You'll understand that it doesn't sound all that appealing to me."

"He wants it for a good reason," the werewolf said, but he didn't seem to believe what he was saying, really.

"Yeah, sure. I'm an animagus, fairly talented with glamours, and polyjuice potion was perfected years ago. Good reason my arse," Sirius snorted and then peered around the room. Dumbledore wanted to use Grimmauld place as the headquarters for the Order, having not quite said it but the pointed looks and hummed insinuations about how much such place was needed were rather obvious.

Well, tough luck. Sirius didn't have any plans for the place right now, but he could get behind Harry's way of thinking – resources and all. Granted, the Grimmauld Place didn't fit Harry's plans, so it'd probably be just left empty, but before that Sirius would make sure anything and everything useful was taken to Harry – and probably most the things which weren't useful too.

"Wonder what I should do about Kreacher. I don't trust that creature as far as I can throw him," Sirius muttered and then frowned. "Or even nearly that far," he added, because throwing an old, half starved house elf probably wasn't all that hard, even for him.

"Give him orders to make him unable to leave, maybe," Remus suggested, looking around as well. He was quiet for a moment before glancing at Sirius. "I'm not saying that we shouldn't want to fight, or back Harry up. But he is just fourteen."

"He's a very resourceful fourteen year old, and can use what he has pretty well. And besides, he got Hermione to smooth out whatever kinks there are in his plans," Sirius said, shrugging. "He's not stupid enough to think he's perfect, and is capable of taking advice and accepting help." Which put him far above Dumbledore, easily. For all his might and wisdom, for all that he _listened_, Dumbledore didn't hear advices or opinions from sources other than himself, and didn't take criticism well. Oh, he took it with a smile and an understanding nod – but never as much as considered that any other plan except his own might be correct.

"And besides," Sirius added, glancing at his friend. "He'll have us. And probably lot of other adults, once he gets to full swing of recruiting."

Remus grimaced at that, looking away. Sirius grinned at the back of his head and then headed forward again. The thing that bothered Remus the most about the whole thing was that unlike Sirius, who had joined in before Harry had even asked, Remus had been _recruited_. Which meant that Harry would, very soon, start paying Remus a salary. It wouldn't be much, considering what Remus had been recruited for, but for Remus it was probably loads more than he could've expected in any other situation. And to be paid for doing what Remus' honour told him he should've been doing for free, and still having doubts about it…

"You've always been a bit too prideful, you know," Sirius said, as they continued along the house. "Harry's going to be paying everyone, even his friends – Hermione, I bet, will have a bigger salary than you. He'd be paying me, except my vaults' are bigger than his." The ex-convict paused there, thinking about it. The Black fortune was bigger than the Potter fortune. For a proper pureblood, who could spend thousands of galleons on a beatifying potion without a blink, it wasn't exactly _huge_, but it was a still a fair amount of gold. Gold which he could hardly even access. "Hm," he hummed, considering.

"What?" Remus asked.

"Well. Me being a convict and all, can't exactly go into Gringotts that easily. But maybe I should write a will," Sirius said, stroking his chin. "Something along the lines of in case of my imprisonment in Azkaban, all my wealth shall be left to one Harry Potter, or some other rot of the sort. I'm betting he could do more with it than I can, at this point."

"You think more incentive is what he needs right now?" Remus asked, wincing a bit.

"Hell yeah," Sirius answered, grinning and glanced at the werewolf before letting his smile fade. "It is all a bit mad, but… Harry is right, you know. About the war, and about Order not having done much last time around. He wants to, though, and I think that's worth a lot more than the gold in my vault. And I want to do something too – didn't get much of a chance, last time."

The other man glanced at him and then sighed. "I suppose you're right. And Dumbledore probably won't be doing much. Not like Harry is going to," he admitted and then glanced around them. "So, what are you planning to do with this house? Considering everything, I mean – from what I got, Harry's not aiming to set up camp in any big cities."

"No, he's going to buy some plot of land in the middle of nowhere. But Grimmauld Place's not in a bad spot – that's why Dumbledore wants it," Sirius said, resting his hand at his hips. "For now I think I'll empty the place and once Harry has his camp all set up, I'll send everything to him, let him figure out what we need and so on. After that, this place can stay empty, be a sort of backup hideaway."

"We should probably put a Fidelius on the place," Remus suggested. "That's what Dumbledore wants to do, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Sirius agreed, considering it and their surroundings and sighing. Packing. He had always hated packing. "Better get to it, I suppose."

The werewolf nodded. "What about Harry, though? The spring term is nearly over – and I'm thinking he won't be going to Dursleys for the summer."

Sirius shook his head and then looked at him. "Well, he has lot to do in Diagon Alley. Buying land, setting up monthly payments for his new employees, things like that," he said, grinning at his friend's uneasy look and then shrugging his shoulders. "I'm thinking he needs a proper escort."

x

Remus had his qualms about what was going on. Harry was so young, after all, and he remembered the plans James had came up at that age all too well. Though Harry wasn't like James, not exactly, he still had a lot of James in him, and the werewolf couldn't help but admit that he was afraid – terrified even – that the sort of recklessness that had made James so much fun when they had been children, would be displayed in Harry's plans too.

He revised that thought pretty quickly after he got the list of things Harry needed to do at Diagon Alley – sent to him in advance, so that he'd be prepared for the eventual, fairly long shopping trip. There were no "Find a store that sells swords" or "See if there are invincibility potions" on the list. Instead it was a straight bullet point list of places to go, and issues to cover. Gringotts: setting up back up accounts, hiring an account manager, figuring out where and how to purchase land and if that couldn't be done at Gringotts or indeed the magical world itself, then muggle world. Visiting the variety of clothing shops and charting out their merchandise; mainly, their fabrics and where they got them from, what was the going rate of variety of magic resistant fabrics, of dragon hide, and the sort. Then the same was to be done to the potions ingredient shops – to figure out how much getting various ingredients for variety of potions would cost all together and if it'd be cheaper to going to the straight to the suppliers, rather than the shops. And so on.

It was a bit staggering, the things written on the list – like checking out the price of dozen magical tents, the going rate of goblin warders, the possibility of buying back up wands, of hiring a spell inventor if possible… Remus could very easily see Hermione's hand in all of it – she had written the list itself, and had obviously filled out some of the holes here and there with her annotations. But some of the things, like hiring a _spell inventor_ of all things were very much Harry's notions.

When the young wizard had written to him, saying that he intended to start an army, he hadn't been kidding. He wasn't just going to start one, but he was very obviously also going to supply it with the best he could manage. Everything from protective gear to weapons – there was a point in the list about potential magical explosives – as well as places to live and spells to use, Harry was looking to cover it all. And on the other side of the list, there were a lot of things to cover about more simple but absolutely necessary things, like food, water, hygiene, even entertainment.

But, even after the list and the things it covered, Harry was still a bit of a surprise, when Remus went to meet him – with Padfoot at his side – in the King's Cross station. The boy was a bit quieter and a bit more serious, as Remus watched him say good byes to his friends, with vows to contact very soon, and there was a look in his eyes Remus did and didn't recognize. With Harry looking so much like James, it didn't fit in his eyes that well. It was _Lily's_ expression, the one she had gotten when faced with a problem she was damn well going to solve.

"Professor," Harry said, walking over to him. "Snuffles," he added, with a grin to the dog as Padfoot bounced to his side.

"Harry. I take it your muggle family won't be coming," Remus asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I sent them a letter not to bother this summer, that I had other arrangements," Harry shrugged.

"Do you?" Remus asked, a bit dismayed – did the kid even have a place to stay, if he wasn't going to the Dursleys.

"I will, eventually," the boy answered, scratching Padfoot's neck and then turning serious. He glanced around, to the other students still milling about the platform, some of them looking at them curiously. "I've got lot to do. Can we get going?"

"Yeah. I'll side-along Apparate you," Remus said, offering one of his hands to Harry and the other to Padfoot. While Harry took hold of the other, the dog let his collar be gripped, and once he had a firm grip, Remus concentrated and turned on his spot.

It was probably Harry's first experience with Apparation – he certainly looked green as they came out in the Diagon Alley. The kid shook it off very determinately, though, and headed forward without a pause, with Padfoot trotting happily after him and Remus hurrying behind them.

How different Harry's plans were from what James might've been came to be rather obvious in Gringotts. The meeting with Harry's new account manager started out slow and tentative, Harry asking few questions about what was and wasn't possible, and then turning into a out right negotiation. Whether it was Hermione's coaching that made Harry ask all the right questions or something Harry himself had figured out, it was hard to tell as the kid threw himself at his finances, and numbers started going back and forth.

Remus had never had a Gringotts vault, and had never had to deal with goblins with anything more than occasionally changing some galleons to pounds, so it was all something of a new experience to him, to watch Harry set up three new vaults – one as a savings vault, one as a resources vault – for which he got ten keys – and the last one for salaries, to which Harry transferred rather staggering amount of galleons. Then Remus was in the awkward position of listening Harry decide on payments for his soon-to-be-workers, himself included.

"Since some of my workers might not have vaults of their own, that might be tricky. Does Gringotts use cheques?" Harry asked, while Remus was fighting the vertigo of feeling like he had fallen down the rabbit hole.

Then, worse of all, Harry started the process of finding a suitable piece of land to buy – which, it turned out, he could do at Gringotts though, of course, the available estates weren't exactly numerous, given that most of British soil belonged to muggles, rather than magicals. That didn't stop the kid from finding not just one, but two pieces of land he wanted to consider over the night.

"Next, the stores," Harry said after finishing his dealings with the goblins. "After that I'll get us rooms at the Leaky Cauldron and we can go over the estates."

"I'm not sure how much I can contribute to that," Remus admitted, still feeling very much out of his depth.

"You know more about wards than I do, I think, and I need to take things like that into consideration before I buy either of the two," Harry admitted, glancing at him. "I hope this all isn't making you uncomfortable, professor. But it needs to be done now."

"Yes, I understand. I just…" Remus sighed and shook his head. It had been a long while since he had been part of anything, not to mention about something as big as this was going to be. And even back during the first war, and before it, he had never been part of the planning – just the _doing_. And he hadn't been that big of a part in the doing either. For all that he was a werewolf, he had never been all that… active a person.

"I'm not sure how much of a help I can be," he admitted.

"Every bit helps," Harry promised. "Now, clothing or potions first?" he asked, trying to choose between two stores. "I just want to see what they have available for now – potions will probably take longer."

"Most likely," Remus agreed, glancing at the boy. "You do realise that if you're going to do this, you will probably need lot of specialists. Someone with tailoring experience and probably a potions maker among them."

"Hm," the boy agreed with a frown. "And potions makers aren't that thick on the ground, from what I've heard."

"No, not really," Remus said, giving the kid a side long look and then lying a hand on Padfoot's shoulders, to keep the dog from reacting to what he was about to say. "For all his faults, Severus would be lot more help to you, than I," he said, knowing that Harry held no affection for the potions master, nor Severus for him, but the point had to be made. Severus was what he was, but he was also _very good_ at what he did. Be it potions making… or spying.

Harry frowned and looked up at him while Padfoot let out a growl. "Snape?" the boy asked and folded his arms, but not in rejection. If anything he looked like he was actually considering it. "I sort of got the impression that he's Dumbledore's man through and through."

"Maybe. But more than that, Severus is very much _against_ Voldemort," Remus said pointedly. "How much he could be trusted is anyone's guess, but he would be very useful."

"Hm," Harry answered. "I will have to think about that," he said, shaking his head and then turning to the stores again. "Clothing, I'll check out clothing first," he decided, and then headed towards Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions. Remus moved to follow him, only to stop when Padfoot got in his way and nearly made him trip.

"What?" Remus asked and then rolled his eyes at the look the dog was giving him. "The point had to be made. If Harry's going to do this, he's going to need every asset. Even the ones you don't agree with," he said and pushed the dog around. "And for all I know, Severus might just laugh himself to death at the notion of working for James' son, and you don't even have to worry about it."

Padfoot growled quietly but followed him, while Remus considered the possibilities of what Harry was starting – because now it seemed like he really _could_ do it. And not just could he start something, but probably see it to its completion. Whatever had happened to the kid in the Tri-wizard tournament had changed Harry, and no wonder really if it had been what Dumbledore had said it was.

And despite how uncertain it was, Remus couldn't help but feel some measure of hope at the concept. Not to mention fair bit of excitement, the sort he hadn't felt since Hogwarts, since the Marauders had still been full and whole.

"You know," he murmured to Padfoot as they followed the kid to the store. "I wonder if he's considered giving this enterprise an insignia yet."

x

"Okay. Methinks Harry is a bit mad," George said quietly to his twin, after opening the envelope delivered just moments ago by a very self-important looking owl. The letter was very neat, the emblem of Gringotts stamped onto one corner, all neat and tidy. The wax seal, though, was much more interesting. There was a shield with two crossed wands in it, very simple, but somehow also very telling.

"Methinks youthinks right, brother dear," Fred agreed with a frown, fanning himself with the cheque that had been inside his identical letter. "Also methinks this be a bit more serious than we first assumed."

Not that they had ever assumed it wasn't, not after their first talk with Ron and then the somewhat terrifying follow up with the Boy Who Lived himself. Someone had flicked Harry switch at some point, and what had just been their brother's dear best friend, adoptive Weasley, the newest apple of their mother's eye, had become something… else. And no wonder Ron had been anxious to get a step ahead, considering what Harry was planning.

But this? It was just the _down payment_ for the inventions Harry had, more or less, ordered from them, but if Fred's cheque was as big as George's, it was thousand galleons put together. If the down payment was thousand, what would be the follow up?

"Makes me wonder what would've happened if we had gone with the other choice," Fred murmured. Harry had given them two offers – either to work for him on case basis, with him ordering certain things, them delivering to the best of their ability and getting paid accordingly… or work for him, period, and get a steady salary for doing it not to mention about having a separate budget for their projects.

They had gone with the cases because they wanted to work on their own things too, and for all that Harry was different he wasn't quite _that_ different and working for a kid two years younger would have been kind of weird.

And in a way, up until this point, they hadn't really thought that Harry would actually _do it_. But here it was, in black and white. Their very first payment for a job they hadn't yet even started working on.

"Makes _me_ wonder what would happen, if we now just took this and did whatever," George murmured, eying the cheque. Five hundred galleons was… really Merlin damned _lot_. More than their dad made in a year, even. The things they could do, to buy, the ingredients…

"Eh…" Fred grimaced, tapping the cheque against his chin. "Tempting, but not quite tempting enough, if Harry's soon going to have an army. You don't steal from a man with his own army, brother dearest."

"Yes, there is that," George agreed with a sigh – and wasn't that weird? Harry, the little skinny boy with constant look of bewilderment and confusion, with his _own army_. Weird and rather scary. "I guess we ought to get to work, then," he said, setting the slip of parchment – which was worth five hundred Merlin damned galleons – down. "What to start with, though?"

"Hmm," his brother hummed and reached for the stack of parchment on their shared desk, one of which contained the notes they had written down since their meeting with Harry. Harry wanted a _lot_ and was of course willing to pay for it. But what to start with? The armour? The silencer? Maybe the shield-holder, or the security-things, whatever they would end up being…

"The bombs, methinks, will be easiest," Fred said, considering the lists. "The smoke one ought to be simple, and after that the flash one shouldn't be too much trouble. We need ingredients though."

"We need to visit Diagon Alley," George murmured and they shared a grim look. Though they were both off the age now, and could Apparate legally, since what had happened at Hogwarts… well, the Weasley Lioness was being very protective of her cubs. They had already gotten more than an earful for venturing beyond the wards to the town. Trip to the Diagon Alley would have their mum in fits.

"Owl order?" Fred suggested without much hope.

"I think we'll better plan a sneak out," George said grimly. "And ask for forgiveness later once we come back triumphant. First though, we got to figure out what we need."

"Right you are," Fred agreed, and considered it. "Knowing what Harry wants though, it needs to be cheap and easy to make. No patent gimmicks with these things, not if he wants to be able to make them himself."

George nodded, glancing at the cheque and wondering. They already had some ideas about how to make what and what it would take, some of the things they were already on their way to making, more or less. Once they had perfected the designs, Harry would get those designs and he would, somehow, manufacture enough of them to supply his army with. Tools, weapons, protective gear and equipment, everything a foot soldier needed and more.

"Brother mine," George said. "After Harry makes his army, and we make his equipment, after that… what happens?"

"He fights a war?" Fred asked, shrugging.

"And then what? We make all these things, and he gets the people he needs and then he fights a war. Let's say he wins. Then what?" George asked, frowning as he looked at his brother. "What happens to the army, or this equipment? Let's say he wins and survives and all this stuff is still there. What will Harry _do_ with it?"

Fred frowned, leaning back a bit. "I'd say he could take over the world, but he's Harry… so I got no idea."

"Me neither. Isn't that a bit scary?"

"A bit yeah," Fred agreed and then shrugged. "Also kind of cool, when you think about it."

x

Will most likely continue this at some point, but right now the inspiration waned. The stupid thing is that the one thing I like the most about this is the "galleons being worth fifty pounds each". I've never liked the concept of one galleon being worth five pounds because... yeah, that would mean copy of a Daily Prophet cost only five pence and butter beer was worth sixty pence and how does that make any sense? So I've tried to make galleons worth higher in fics, but I never could settle on a good amount. Why I didn't realise that fifty instead of five was kind of neatly fitting, I'll never know, but it's probably what I'm going to use from here on.


	57. To the Victor

Warnings: a slavery fic, but maybe not the way you might think

**To the Victor**

"Morning. We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Potter's safe."

The words were simple enough, and Hagrid said them in a fairly pleasant, more or less carefree tone and really, they shouldn't have caused much fuss at all. Except, they did. The goblin to whom the giant of a man was talking snapped his eyes up, opening his mouth, then grimacing with all the power of his inhumanly pointed teeth, and then glared down at Harry like the boy had offered a enormous personal insult and ought to be put to jail for it.

Harry, who still had some doubts about _having_ a safe in this incredible, enormous, _weird_ bank, took a unnerved step back. He had doubts about more or less everything about this whole affair. Though the things he had seen Hagrid commit had demanded certain level of belief, the whole thing about him being greeted in Leaky Cauldron with bows and handshakes and comments of pleasure had been a bit too much. Then Hagrid goes and tells him he has a vault in the wizarding bank – the only wizarding bank – with enough money to put him through the magical school of Hogwarts and more? That was where his suspension of disbelief started having some hang ups.

Maybe Hagrid was really as mad as he seemed and the goblins knew it, and would now tell him, very pointedly, how much of their time they were wasting? The little, crooked looking creature certainly looked like he was about to.

"Please hold," the goblin finally snarled at them, almost spat, and then left the desk, leaving Hagrid and Harry standing in front of it confusedly.

"What's this now?" Hagrid muttered with a frown.

"Maybe I _don't_ have a safe?" Harry suggested uneasily. It was supposed to be his parent's vault, after all, and didn't that mean no one had done anything about it since their death? That meant the vault had been unattended for last ten years or so. Maybe in the time, the fees and whatnot had emptied and then Harry, who had inherited the vault without knowing he had, had also lost it without knowing it, once there hadn't been enough money to support the ownership? Or something, he had no idea how wizarding bank vaults worked.

Maybe he would have to actually _pay_ the Gringotts back for not having paid for the vault space? Swallowing, Harry glanced around in the great hall of Gringotts and tried not to bolt. He had no money – he had _never_ had any money, in fact. And even if he didn't have to pay gringotts back for the vault he hadn't been properly paying for…. How was he going to get his school supplies? And Hogwarts? Was there a tuition, had it been taken from his vault - or did he have to pay it, except he no longer had the money?'

Any moment now Hagrid would find out that the whole thing had been a mistake and taker him back to the Dursleys and Dudley would never let him live it down. Not to mention about the fall Harry would have to take, for Dudley's new, unnatural tail. Not to mention about everything else. Uncle Vernon wouldn't let him live it down. Or let him _live_ at all!

Feeling thoroughly panicked now, Harry only barely managed to keep himself from ducking behind Hagrid for cover when the Goblin returned, carrying with him a large scroll of some thick stuff which wasn't quite paper – parchment, maybe? It had enormous golden rollers which gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, and which, for some reason, drew a lot of attention around the hall.

"Blimey," Hagrid breathed and then glanced down at Harry who shifted where he stood and wondered if his shoelaces was knotted tight enough for a proper run. "Harry," the giant of a man said, crouching down while the goblin, still scowling hideously, opened the deep red silk ribbon wrapped around the scroll and rolled it open. "That there's a Legacy Codex. It means yeh inherited something that's not on the books; no wills, yeh see. Magical inheritance. The Legacy Codex'll check yeh blood, ter see yer who yer says yeh are."

"Er," Harry answered, looking between the man and the goblin and the Codex, which now lay open on the desk. In the middle of the open portion there was a circular spot, surrounded by strange writing.

"Write your name here," the goblin demanded, handing over a strange, almost evil looking black quill while motioning the circular spot.

"Do it, Harry," Hagrid nodded. "No harm innit. Might sting a bit."

"Right," Harry muttered, still uneasy, as he took the quill. He had never used one before and hadn't been looking to the experience after finding out that in Hogwarts he'd have to use them, and to write his name on something as splendid as this scroll, with a instrument he had never used before – knowing how bad his hand writing was with a _normal_ pen…

But the goblin was glaring a cold murder at him now and pretty much everyone in the hall was looking towards them not so surreptitiously, some murmuring to each other. Taking a deep breath Harry leaned in and then touched the quill to the paper – having no knowledge of quills, not knowing to wonder about the lack of ink. The resulting _sting_ was a bit more than a sting and Harry winced powerfully as the back of his hand suddenly opened and the line he had drawn to start the letter H was cut open on his hand.

"Ouch," he said, more confused than anything else, staring at his hand in bewilderment.

"Finish writing," the goblin snarled.

"It's okay, Harry. It'll heal, see," Hagrid said, motioning at his hand where the line had already disappeared. "Write it quickly, it'll sting less."

"Easy for you to say," Harry rumbled, glancing around himself – but apparently, magical quills that cut your _hand_ were perfectly normal because no one as much as raised an eyebrow. Steeling himself, Harry touched the quill to the parchment again and hastily scribbled his name down, wincing all the while and watching the back of his hand, as the words, _Harry Potter_ appeared and vanished

The moment he was done, the goblin snatched the quill from his fingers and then turned the scroll around, to stare at it intently. Rubbing the back of his hand uneasily and swearing to find muggle pens and pencil, rules be damned, for his year in Hogwarts, Harry leaned in to do the same. As he, Hagrid and the goblin stared, the parchment seemed to soak the name Harry had written with his own blood, and it vanished into the pores of the strange material.

After that, nothing seemed to happen for a moment. Then first a shadow of something appeared into the circular empty area, which grew more defined like picture coming into focus – and then they were looking a elaborate coat of arms, adorned with what looked like a coat of arms. A shield, separated into four parts rather like the Hogwarts coat of arms, except with different features. The shield was surrounded by artistic foliage, with what looked like helmet and then a stylised dragon on top and a ribbon drawn below. With the whole thing upside down, Harry couldn't see the details that clearly, or read what was written on the ribbon, but it all seemed very grand.

The goblin didn't seem to think so, judging by his ever darkening expression, but he spent a long while examining the thing, even going as far as taking out a jeweller's loupe and peering intently at the sections of the shield before sitting up straighter. "Very well," he said, rolling the scroll up with a deft movement and tying it again with the red ribbon. "Come this way," the goblin then ordered and with a confused glance at Hagrid, Harry did.

The Goblin led them out of the hall and through a corridor, flanked on both sides by goblin statues and doors. They were taken to the end of the corridor, where two armoured goblins stood, barring the way with wicked looking spears crossed. "Harry Potter, Patriarch of the Potter Family to see the Director," the goblin they had been taking to said, while Harry eyed the magnificent door with mixed feelings. Maybe it was because what had just happened with the scroll, but he was for some reason very aware of the enormous coat of arms adorning the door – a magnificent, elaborate thing with gyroscope type of thing on top and scales in the bottom, and lot of confusing stuff in between.

He had a strange feeling about all of this coat of arms stuff. And… _Patriarch_?

"His identity has been confirmed," the goblin added, at which point the armoured goblins turned their attention to "Hagrid, who hovered behind Harry, looking dazzled.

"What?" the giant of a man asked.

"You may not enter," the goblin they had been dealing with said stiffly, sneering. "The business is only with the Potter Patriarch. You will wait here or in the hall."

"No wait just ter minute!" Hagrid said, raising to his full, and rather considerable height. "I'm here as Mr. Potter's escort. Anywhere he goes, I go."

"Not in Gringotts," The goblin said and gave him a vicious, almost sadistic look. "You will comply and wait, or you will be removed by force. There will be _no_ arguments."

"Ah," Harry stepped in before Hagrid could say anything else or the goblins could chart his guide off at spear point or something. "What sort of business do I have here, exactly?" he asked, looking between the Keeper of Keys and the goblins. "Because I don't know anything about this."

"It is not for me to discuss, I am not the Director," the goblin said stiffly.

"Well then Mr. Potter is not going anywhere near that office," Hagrid said, folding his arms, which made the armoured goblins straighten their spears and adjust their grips on them – they looked rather like they were looking to poke few holes into the giant of a man, and that they'd do it with both extreme prejudice and pleasure.

"The business at hand is only for the Potter Patriarch to refuse," the goblin snarled and then looked at Harry. "Do you refuse to personally handle the issues concerning your inheritance?" he asked and sneered. "Gringotts is fully equipped to handle the proceedings with the Ministry, of course, if you choose to leave the issues for the bank to handle."

"Um," Harry glanced between Hagrid and the goblins and then back at Hagrid. He wasn't sure what was going on here, but… _Patriarch._ It had a sound to it. A very _family oriented_, not to mention very important, sound. While seeming like something ridiculously implausible and yeah, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that this was all a mistake of some sort… it didn't seem like something he could just ignore either, or reject without actually figuring out what it was about.

"Hagrid?" Harry asked finally. He didn't know what was going on, or what any of it meant. "Shouldn't I go?"

Hagrid frowned, looking uncertain. "Is ter no way I can accompany Mr. Potter?" the giant of a man asked finally.

"None, not until after the Potter Patriarch has been privately and in confidence informed of his assets. After that, the choice is his," the goblin snapped.

"Okay then," Hagrid said with a sigh, and then looked at Harry. "I'll wait yeh in the lobby. Yeh come find me once yer done."

"Alright," Harry nodded, and promptly was nervous for a whole new reason. It had been easy to enter the Alley and the bank with Hagrid at his side, it had been easy to even come here, to this door, but the idea that he'd be going through alone to deal with whatever bank matter he had to deal with… and with these goblins too, who seemed like unpleasant lot one and all…

As Hagrid stepped back, the goblin they had been talking to stepped forward and opened the golden doors, announcing simply, "Potter family Patriarch," and then stepping aside to hold the door open. With a glance at the Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts, Harry squared his shoulders and stepped forward and into the office.

It was as grand as the corridor and the hall; big and spacious with a vaulted ceiling and no windows, lit by enormous chandelier and some candles on golden holsters near the walls. There was only one thing in the room, a dark wooden desk, behind which sat an ancient looking goblin.

"Potter Patriarch," the goblin greeted him with a look of displeasure. "Please, come in."

After Harry, who was feeling even more nervous than before, had stepped in, the goblin with the Legacy Codex walked into the office as well, going past him and putting the enormous scroll onto the desk in front of older goblin. Then with a bow, the first goblin retreated and the golden doors slammed shut, sealing Harry alone with the ancient goblin in the enormous and rather intimidating office. A silence that followed was the most oppressing Harry had ever felt, putting all the awkward moments in Dursley Household to shame and making Harry feel even more like he was in the wrong place.

Without a word, the ancient goblin took the Legacy Codex and opened it, staring down at the coat of arms that had appeared on it, narrowing his eyes. "Well then," the goblin said. "Would you prefer to go over your assets, liquid and otherwise, before or after I call the Ministry officials?"

"Uh. Why are you going to call ministry officials?" Harry asked nervously. "And what ministry are we talking about?"

"The Ministry of _Magic_, of course," the goblin answered, eying him like he was an idiot. "Portion of your property being somewhat in the… _uncommon_ way these days, the Ministry has been involved in your case of Magical Inheritance left behind by one Tom Marvolo Riddle since the very start. It is by law, one voted and signed in nineteen eighty one by the Wizengamot High Court of Magical Law, that your _human_ assets are always overseen by an Ministry administrator."

"My what?" Harry asked faintly.

The goblin blinked at him, narrowing his eyes further. "I believe, Mr. Potter, that I best call the administrator before be proceed," he said finally. "As you obviously have not been informed of your property. Please, make yourself comfortable while I make the necessary calls."

Harry, more confused than before, just blinked and then nearly jumped as the wall beside him suddenly came up, four extensions of the warm hued marble growing out strangely before meeting and suddenly morphing into a stone chair, with high back rest and elaborate arm rests. While Harry stared at the suddenly appeared chair, the ancient goblin left his desk and walked out of the office without a further word, leaving Harry completely alone in the office.

And completely bewildered.

Property? The idea that he might have a _safe_ in this bank was bad enough, but… property? And what had the goblin meant by _human assets_? And why hadn't he ever heard of any of this? Well, that question was easy enough to answer – the Dursleys had never told him anything and all in all he rather doubted they knew because if Uncle Vernon had known that Harry owned as much as a pence, that pence would've exchanged ownerships rather quickly. Something as big sounding as _property_… yeah, the Dursleys would've been on that that like Dudley on a free buffet.

Sitting down on the stone chair gingerly, Harry fiddled with his hands for a moment. He felt awkward and out of place, with his over sized clothing and sneakers which were falling apart at the seams. What was he _doing_ here? What was he supposed to do? Why had the people in the pub known him? Because of his parents? They had been a witch and wizard, he knew that know. Was all of _this_ because of them too? Had his father been the Potter family Patriarch? And when he had died, Harry had inherited the, uh, title? And the rest?

After moment of twisting his fingers and making his knuckles pop, Harry ran his hands through his hair, wishing he didn't look as scruffy as he no doubt did. Though this was surreal enough as it was, he couldn't even imagine how weird it would've felt to be all neat and polished.

The ancient goblin was gone good ten minutes and Harry was starting to contemplate bolting once more, when he finally returned with a human man – or a wizard, Harry supposed. He was a tall, very proper looking elderly man with neatly parted hair and very tightly trimmed moustache, and robes which were just few lines from being a muggle suit. He looked like every bit the embodiment of a word, _administrator_.

"Mr. Potter?" the man asked, stepping forward and holding out his hand. "Bartemius Crouch Senior, your liaison to the Ministry of Magic's Being Division. Pleasure to meet you."

"My liaison?" Harry asked faintly, even while standing up automatically and taking the hand offered. The hand shake was firm and very brief.

"Yes," Crouch said, glancing at the ancient looking goblin and then at Harry. "You are of course not aware of what this meeting entails and what, precisely, calls for a liaison in this case but rest assured, you will soon find out," he added and looked at the ancient goblin. "Director, if you would supply _both_ of us with seats, so we may begin…?"

The old goblin gave the man a look which was only a hair's width from being a glare, but the floor shifted again and another chair _grew_ from the marble, for the Ministry official. While Harry sat down awkwardly, Crouch waited for his chair to finish forming before taking a seat.

"Now. You are of course aware of the events of nineteen eighty one that lead to the circumstances of your unusual inheritance," Crouch started while taking something from his robes, a book with black covers.

"Actually, no," Harry answered. "What events?"

Crouch paused in midst of leafing the book. "The death of He Who Must Not Be Named, of course," he said, looking at Harry strange.

"Why not?" Harry asked, confused.

"What?"

"Why must he not be named? Who is he? And what does his death have to do with me?" the boy asked, and shifted a bit at the look both the man and the nameless ancient goblin gave him. "What?" he asked a bit defensively. "I only found out magic was real _yesterday_, you can't expect me to know everything yet."

"You don't…?" Crouch asked, looking a little less prim and proper for a moment before compiling himself and glancing at the goblin who just silently scowled back. "Well, Mr. Potter… what _do_ you know?"

Harry thought about it, while frowning at the two other people in the room. "I know I'm a wizard, and that I've been invited to a magical school. I know my parents were a witch and a wizard and that they apparently left me some money. That's about it," he said and then had to add at Crouch's look of utter shock. "I live with my Aunt's family, they're all muggle and they don't like magic, so I never knew anything, not before Hagrid told me yesterday."

"I see," Crouch said, frowning at Harry for a long, thoughtful moment before closing the book. "Well then. Considering your ignorance about these matters, this might seem quite fantastical for you, but I assure every word is true, and very important," he said. "What am I about to tell you concerns you most importantly, so pay attention."

Fantastical didn't quite cover it. Wizards and magical school were bad enough, Ministry of _Magic_ had already thrown a wrench into the workings of Harry's mind, but a magical war, dark wizards marked with a dark mark, a _dark lord_ and his parents having been murdered… Harry wasn't sure at what point his mind just gave up stopped _thinking_ and just mindlessly listened to the very brisk explanation of what had led into him becoming an orphan, but by the time Crouch finished with the explanation about how the Dark Lord in question had broken into his parent's home, Harry's mind was completely blank.

"Of course the precise events of that night are still mostly a mystery, but from the investigations about the magical signatures, it has been confirmed that three Killing Curses were cast that night. Two of them killed your parents, but the third one, which was aimed at you, failed, resulting quite an unusual backlash," Crouch continued, looking at him keenly. "Something about you made the Killing Curse – one of the most powerful curses there are, unstoppable and unforgivable – fail. Instead of killing you, it was reflected to the caster instead and the resulting magical recoil was so powerful, it destroyed your parent's house. And, of course, killed the Dark Lord in question."

Harry said nothing, as the words just filed themselves away somewhere in his mine. Crouch eyed him for a moment searchingly before continuing. "Considering the power of the Killing Curse and the effect it had on the castor in this case, the event has made you quite famous among the magical populations. You might have already observed that, when you entered Diagon Alley. There is however another side effect of the events of that night."

When no one said anything after that, Harry blinked slowly and then shook himself enough to nudge this unbelievable discussion onward. "Like what?" he asked, every bit of his sheer disbelief in the words.

Crouch hesitated and then looked up at the goblin, who sneered back. "The dark lord," the goblin started. "Was in midst of a ritual when he was destroyed by the backlash of the curse. An Old Magic ritual, the likes of which people don't tamper with these days. Whatever caused his demise at that point, the magic read as _Conquest_. He was _Conquered_ by you."

"Uh," Harry answered nonsensically and then shook his head. "That sounds… special somehow?"

"Very special. A magical Conquest is something very old and very powerful and _very binding_," Crouch said. "I believe you might've heard the saying, to the victor goes the spoils? That is the essence of a magical Conquest."

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it, as the Ministry official and the Gringotts Director just stared at him, as if waiting for him to get it. And he did – he was shocked and confused, not stupid. "And what did he… own?" he asked slowly, trying to imagine and falling just short. What would a _dark lord_ own? Torture chambers?

Crouch just looked at him for a moment before hands his fingers in his lap. "I told you about the Death Eaters, and about the Dark Mark they bore," he said slowly, like talking to a, well, child. "During the time of war we were under the impression that the Dark Mark was only the symbol of his… agenda, a banner he had his followers rally under. Later, when we became aware of your Conquest over him, we learned the truth."

"And?" Harry asked, breathing in and out very slowly to stop himself from choking because… no, he couldn't be guessing this right. Couldn't.

"The Dark Lord's command over his people was always absolute – and the taboo of his name came from the followers, who never could say their Master's name. After he was destroyed, we found out why," Crouch said, again very slowly. Harry had the oddest impression that the man didn't want to just _say_ it, or that he couldn't. "And to this day we only know one who person who ever managed to break the Dark Lord's orders, and he suffered very severe consequences."

Harry just eyed the man, just as unwilling to get is as the man was to explain it.

It was the ancient goblin director who broke the silence with an annoyed growl. "What he's trying not to say is that they're slaves, each and every one of them, and you own the lot," he said with a grimace. "Twenty six human magicals, six of whom are in Azkaban, four of whom are under house arrest, all of whom have been and still are under suspicion of variety of illegal acts including theft, murder, treason and so on."

Harry looked at the goblin, the wheels in his head spinning slowly and coming to no conclusion. "Why?" he asked finally, his voice coming out as a faint, dry croak. "I mean, why haven't they been released? Slavery _can't_ be legal." The last bit he said rather desperately. "It's not right? It was abolished in the Muggle world ages ago!"

"It isn't legal in the magical world either, rest assured," Crouch said awkwardly.

"But legal or not, it makes no difference. They were _bound_ and this is the way Magical Conquest functions," the goblin answered. "They were magically enslaved the moment the Dark Marks were branded on their skins. Upon the Dark Lord's death, the ownership transferred via the Conquest to you. You now own them."

"And unfortunately, though the Ministry has been searching for a means to undo this for the last ten years, the slavery seals are binding – even the removal of the arm where the Mark is does nothing to affect the bond," Crouch continued. "All of those whom the Dark Lord marked will bear those marks to their graves."

Harry let out a croak of disbelief and then, for a moment, was absolutely certain this was a dream, the maddest dream he had ever had. It would make sense, what with magical giants and pubs and streets and banks suddenly turning into stuff about magical slavery. But the edge of his seat was digging to his thighs rather uncomfortably and he felt faint – something he had never felt in a dream.

"Twenty six?" he asked finally, turning to the Goblin. "Twenty six people?"

"Twenty six we are aware of, though admittedly it would be very difficult to hide something like this," Crouch said.

"And… what am I supposed to do with them?" Harry asked, horrified as the whole situation started to slowly dawn on him. "What does this mean, what… Can I free them?" he asked, spark of hope dawning.

"No. Due to the nature of the binding, it is impossible to ever free them from the Marks," Crouch said. "And it is impossible to transfer the ownership either, except for a similar Conquest which would mean your death and it might not work again, not like it did in your case. The circumstances were special, after all."

Harry opened his mouth, then realised he had nothing to say to that and closed it again to think. "What am I supposed to do with them?" he settled on repeating and then blinked as a thought came to him. "What have they been doing the last ten years?"

"Whatever they have been able to, which isn't much, and we have done what we can for them, which is even less," Crouch said seriously and leaned forward. "You must understand that the situation is _extremely_ difficult. They are and were slaves in every sense of the word. All joined the Dark Lord with no idea of what they were really signing themselves into, and after they were branded there was no doing back for them – the Dark Lord's control over them was absolute. And under that control, some of them have committed terrible acts."

"Oh," Harry murmured, blinking. "But they didn't… they didn't want to, right? They did it all against their will?"

"Some of them were acquitted for having acted against their will. Others… Well, like said, six of the twenty six are in Azkaban, in the magical prison, for the things they did, due to having confessed doing them willingly," Crouch said grimly.

"Oh, god," Harry said, running a hand over his face, unable to think. His mind was going in circles, it was too much.

"More over you own all they owned, and they cannot do anything… official without your approval," the goblin Director added. "The moment the Dark Lord died, they lost the control of their own belongings and properties and the ability to make legal decisions for themselves. You are not only the owner of twenty six individuals, but their individual safes here at Gringotts and you own their lands and estates and everything else to the clothing of their back. Due to this, Gringotts has not bee able to grant them access to anything in their vaults since then, and we have been forced to confiscate their keys."

Harry just stared at the goblin in horror. "Why?" he asked finally. "Why would you – even if the magic's… they're still _theirs_, aren't they?"

"Gringotts is based on Old Magic," the goblin answered, looking unimpressed. "The ownership of vaults and accounts is based on old magic. "

"And they couldn't access the vaults even if they had the keys – the slavery bond makes them unable to… well, the ownership was transferred to you, and they can't touch what their Master owns without permission," Crouch looked at Harry seriously for a moment. "I understand this much be difficult for you –"

"Difficult? Try bloody impossible!" Harry answered with disbelief. "Two days ago I didn't know anything _about_ this place, two days ago I though my parents had died in a car crash, and now I find I own twenty seven people and all _they own_ too, and it turns out some of them are criminals!"

"Yes, quite," Crouch said awkwardly. "But the situation, as awkward as it is, is unchangeable. You must accept it, and then move onto what you have to do from here on."

"I've asked about that already, you just keep saying I can't do anything," Harry said with a irritated glare, his confusion finally giving away to another emotion – frustrated anger, to be exact.

x

And at this point I realised I didn't really want to write this after all. The idea of Harry owning all the Death Eaters was sort of fun at first, but then… yeah. No.


	58. Matron, Naruto cross

Warnings: Naruto Harry Potter cross. Sort of ooc-super Harry, though it doesn't show much in this bit.

**Matron**

The word of Naruto's disappearance comes to Hiruzen Sarutobi in the morning _after_ the disappearance itself occurs. The staff at the orphanage defend themselves by citing the numbers of their charges and how unruly they are – especially Naruto – and how hard it was, understaffed as they are, to keep track of all the little things that go on. And, besides, the orphanage doors are all locked, the walls surrounding the grounds high and supposedly inescapable, there shouldn't have been any way for any child to escape, especially not a four year old simpleton like Naruto.

"And, for that matter, the boy should have been perfectly content in the orphanage. Food to eat, bed to sleep in, what more can he expect? But no, the ungrateful little –" here one of the staff members are cut off by the head of the orphanage, a middle aged woman with little grey in her black hair, who elbows the other woman hard.

Only the fact that it was hard to find even semi competent staff for Konoha's only orphanage keeps the Third Hokage from firing them all on the spot. Once maybe, when jobs had been scarcer and the orphanage had enjoyed better funding, it wouldn't have been hard at all but now days… Well, the fact that Naruto was one of the occupants at the orphanage had taken a big chunk out of the private funding and what the Hokage's office could supply was barely enough to keep the place going. Not to mention about keeping it going with something like professional staff.

So instead the Hokage bites his tongue at the guileless and not-all-that-guilty expressions he gets from the head of the orphanage, and instead he arranges a quick search. Unruly Naruto might be, but at four years and two months he's not exactly shinobi material, and shouldn't have gotten far. The biggest worry he has isn't about where the boy might've gone – but where _someone_ might've taken him _after_ he had miraculously gotten out of the orphanage.

There'd be an investigation about that, once the boy himself would be found.

"I'll deal with this," he promises the orphanage staff through gritted teeth, when they just linger in his office, like expecting instant results and chance to see the Hokage handing out punishment to the four year old in question. "Just get back to your stations and keep to your duties until further notice."

They hesitate but the head of the orphanage is more than happy to get out, and with brisk movements she ushers her brood out, leaving Hiruzen glaring at the closed door after them.

The problem with Naruto isn't just that majority of the village, including the orphanage staff, had decided to replace him as their object of anger and hatred after Kyubi's attack and imprisonment inside the boy. The problem is that, no matter how hated and belittled he is, the fact remains that the boy is still a jinchuuriki. And even if the civilians of Konoha thought that meant nothing but that the boy was the devil incarnate, it also meant that he was a god damned _jinchuuriki_.

And jinchuuriki are power – and not just as individuals, but as symbols. Jinchuuriki like Naruto, a young impressionable boy hated by all, wouldn't be difficult to persuade to go along when offered with even a smidgeon of kindness and comfort. Any spy worth his pay – and Hiruzen was under no illusions about his village being spy-free – would've immediately jumped at the chance of doing little inventive recruiting, if they happened to see a four year old jinchuuriki walking alone in the dead of the night.

The orphanage wouldn't be going through just an investigation – it would also get a security enhancement or two.

"Now," he murmurs, turning to his crystal ball which is connected to a network of chakra running thorough the whole village. "If I were a four year old on the run, where would I go?"

As he started a grid pattern search, originating from the orphanage, he could see the jounin and ANBU he had send out to search for the boy. Some of them were lazing off on the job – more or less expected, but he made a mental note of them none the less. The ANBU were hardest at work, but it wasn't too surprising. Not only were they professionals to the soles of their geta, and when Hokage ordered the ANBU jumped. They were also, unlike majority of Konoha, perfectly aware of Naruto's worth, most of them having no doubt faced jinchuuriki of other villages at one point or another. They wouldn't leave a rock unturned, to get theirs back.

One day Naruto himself might end up as ANBU. Jinchuuriki often made the best high-danger assassins. Not to mention about high-destruction ones.

Naruto proves to be very elusive, though, and after a while Hiruzen searches, he can't help but feel a twinge of nervousness. He knows for a fact that no matter what has happened, the boy must still be in side the village – had there been any illegal preaches to the village wards, he would've been informed of it, and Konoha still doesn't permit night-travel except for the official Ninja on missions. The council had tried to get him to revoke that war-time-law, and now he's very grateful he hasn't because it means that no one's gone in or out of the village since last night.

But where is the boy? Somewhere by himself, probably cold and starving and miserable, which is bad enough, or… somewhere with _someone_ who had no right to get near the boy?

Or worse yet, lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

Grimacing to himself, Hiruzen runs his hand over his eyes. He really should've pressed harder when it came to the opinions and beliefs people had of Naruto. He was a believer of freedom of speech and free will – to a point – and so had done nothing, but now…? With so many people in the village so desperately against the little blond boy, he wasn't sure if he could put the worse case scenario out of his mind. People were opportunist, after all, sometimes horribly so.

He is considering calling the Inuzuka clan into the search, maybe with the Aburame too to speed up the search, when one of his four secretaries rushes into the office, hand at her ear where she was holding one finger on her headset. "Sir," she says. "Ushi's squad has something in the sector four, thousand and two hundred meters south of the orphanage – training ground eight."

"They have Naruto?" Hiruzen asks, standing up quickly.

"They have confirmed a blond haired boy approximately four years of age, but there is also something else there too. Ushi informs that their squad's sensor is getting… strange reading on the other individual and due to the reading, he has deemed it unsafe to approach until further observation on the individual's intentions," the secretary says and looks at him expectantly. "Shall I give them the order to retrieve the target?"

"Negative," Hiruzen says, frowning. Ushi's squad's sensor is a Hyuuga and if a _Hyuuga_ says that something is _strange_ it means they have absolutely no idea what it is. Which can mean any number of things, none of them very good. "I will assess the situation myself. Inform Ushi that I'll be there in approximately two minutes and they're to hold position."

"Very good, sir," the Secretary says, not even blinking as Hiruzen heads to the window. "Shall I cancel your eight o'clock meeting, sir?"

"Hold it for half an hour, if I'm not there until then, then reschedule it," Hiruzen orders, and then jumps out of the window.

Running over the village rooftops, he is at the training grounds in less than two minutes, and is approached by the Ushi-team the moment he gets close enough.

"Sir," the team captain greets him, kneeling down in the grass beside him. "The target is two points south, approximately fifteen meters, with an unknown individual that appears to be a man, but we are not certain. The chakra reading we get from him…" the man hesitates.

"Speak freely," Hiruzen urges. "What is the reading?"

"No idea, but it gave our sensor a blinding head ache," Ushi admits with a grimace audible in his voice but hidden beneath the ox-mask. "She says that it's not chakra, though. She doesn't know what it is, but it's nothing like chakra."

"Hm," Hiruzen answers, frowning. That is… new. Even summoned creatures have chakra. Even _demons_ have chakra. "What is the status of this individual and Naruto?" he demands to know.

"Ah… they appear to be… cuddling, sir," Ushi answers. "It is hard to say, but I believe the target is asleep in the… stranger's lap."

The Hokage's eyebrows lift at that and then, making a decision, he strides past the bushes that had been between him and the two targets, and to the clearing. There he sees exactly why the ANBU team had been so confused about whether or not it was Naruto – the boy, if it is Naruto, is almost completely hidden in the numerous folds of black and dark red that cover the strange man who is holding him.

As the man looks up and straight at Hiruzen, the Hokage pauses to take in the whole scene. The man, if it is a man, is sitting in the grass, clothed in what looks like approximately two dozen layers of thick cloth, taking form in elaborate cloak and multi layered robes, with sleeves so wide that one of them is enough to work as a planked for Naruto, who lays curled in the man's lap, fast asleep. The man himself is… foreign, somehow. His somewhat pale features are arranged in a way Hiruzen has never seen – his eyes are larger, his jaw wider and stronger, and just the general arrangement of his face is just… slightly off. The wild black hair and almost glowing green eyes only enhance the foreignness of the features, and the round, black rimmed glasses perched on the straight nose do nothing to hide how odd-shaped his eyes are.

The man says nothing, just stares at him while smoothing one sleeve covered hand over Naruto's hair in steady petting motion. Aside from his face, the rest of him is completely covered in the numerous folds of his attire, his hands included. He doesn't seem hostile – the man's features, as foreign as they are, have almost amiable look about them, calm and soothing. But still, there is something about the whole scene that makes Hiruzen hesitate – and it's not just the fact that you could hide an armoury's worth of weapons in the man's numerous folds.

"You seem to have one of my orphans there," Hiruzen says, very aware of the fact that around him, hidden from plain sight, there is an entire ANBU squad, waiting for an order to attack. "I'd prefer to have him back."

The green eyed man says nothing, just blinks slowly and keeps on staring.

Clearing his throat, the Hokage tries again. "He ran away from the orphanage last night. I'm grateful you've been taking care of him, but he needs to go back now. It's time for breakfast and he must be hungry."

Again nothing, this time not even a blink.

Frowning a bit, Hiruzen takes a closer look at the man's face and eyes, and realises that there is not a hint of understanding in the man's eyes. "Can you understand a word I'm saying?" he asks, to no avail. The man doesn't react in any way, just keeps on petting Naruto's hair in slow, languid motions.

Well. This situation is becoming rather interesting, Hiruzen has to admit. A foreigner in _very_ foreign clothing, who can't understand their language and who has something that's _not_ chakra… and Naruto had run right into him? They were lucky the man had decided to soothe the boy rather than do something else, something worse, but… why? And how had this man ended up in his village anyway? And where on earth was he from anyway, to have features and clothing like that and no understanding over the language spoken widely across the continent?

After a moment of hesitation, Hiruzen takes a step closer. When the man holding Naruto doesn't react, he takes another step and then a third. Then, when he's almost close enough to reach, the green eyed man's expression shifts and his eyes narrow – just slightly, but enough to make Hiruzen pause for a moment.

"I really must take him home now," the Hokage says as soothingly as he can, and takes another careful step, bending down a bit, reaching -

The man holding Naruto opens his mouth and a _sound_ comes out. The impact of that sound – a word maybe, it's impossible to say – is instant. Before he can even think of defending himself, Hiruzen is pushed back two good meters as if by an enormous gust of wind, leaving tracks of his feet on the grass. It's not painful in anyway, but the force of it is very strong, and it startles the Hokage enough to make him yelp with shock.

Which, of course, alerts all the ANBU near by, who all rush into his defence, taking out weapons and getting between him and the man. Before Hiruzen can order them to stand down, the green eyed man has taken this as a sign of hostility and is already acting on it. There is another sound, another word, and a shimmer of blue suddenly envelopes the green eyed man and Naruto in a sphere which, Hiruzen realises the moment he can get past Ushi to see, is a shield.

"Stand down!" he snaps at the ANBU, eying the man and his shield in fascination. There had been no seals, no hand movements what so ever, just _sound_, and the shield had appeared. And not just any shield but _energy shield_ which normally should've been the hardest to form and maintain. But no. The man just sits there in the grass, with Naruto still in his lap, still looking relaxed and calm though some of the amiability of his features had faded into a frown.

"But sir, he attacked you," Ushi says, still holding his sword.

"No. He _protected_ Naruto," Hiruzen says. It was only when he had reached for the boy that the man had reacted. And that _shield_. It is still up, a shimmering sphere in the air, and Hiruzen can't help but wonder how strong it was. Would it hold back a Ninjutsu, a person, a weapon?

"Mmnn," a sound comes from inside the shield and with secret burst of relief the Hokage watches how Naruto stretches in the man's lap, yawning and then blinking up at one who is holding him. There is a moment of tension as the boy just stares up at the green eyed man, who looks down to him and smiles gently.

Hiruzen is just about to open his mouth to ask, to order Naruto to come away from the man, to say something, when the boy bursts into a grin and jumps up. "It worked!" he yells, throwing his arms around the green eyed man's neck and nearly sending them both off balance. There is a grin on the strange man's face too as he lifts his arms, hands still hidden, to embrace the boy and once more hiding Naruto almost entirely in the folds of his enormous sleeves.

This is not what Hiruzen had been expecting to see, but it eases his heart a bit. Just a bit. "Naruto?" he calls, clearing his throat as the boy keeps on clinging to the strange man's neck. "Naruto!" the Hokage finally snaps, making the boy glance backwards, first fleetingly and then again as he realises they're not alone.

"Old-man Hokage?" the boy asks, blinking, leaning back. The man's arms around the boy's waist and back are probably the only things keeping him from falling backwards, and the Hokage can't help but marvel the trust the boy has on the stranger. "What are you doing here?" Naruto asks, looking confused.

"You ran away from the orphanage. I came to find you," Hiruzen says with a tense smile. "Why don't you introduce me to your friend?"

"Friend?" Naruto asks and looks at the green eyed man before grinning. "He's not my friend," the boy says happily, hugging the man's neck tightly again while the man happily returns the favour. "He's my family."

"Ah," Hiruzen says, frowning, not sure how to answer that. Naruto is an orphan and this man is most obviously not in any way related to him, but to say that to the happy face of the boy? "You could still introduce me to him?" he finally settles on saying.

Naruto frowns at that and looks at the green eyed man again. "No," he then says.

"Naruto," the Hokage says, with a bit more force in his voice. "This is serious."

"Don't care. He's mine and that's that," Naruto says, burrowing himself deeper into the green eyed man's chest, vanishing almost completely unto the thick folds of clothing. "I summoned him and no one will take him away from me."

"You did what?" Hiruzen asks, frowning and stepping closer, to the edge of the shield. "Naruto did you just say you _summoned_ him?"

"Yes," the boy answers from his hiding place, while the green eyed man indulgently wraps his cloak around the boy, hiding him completely. "I did."

"And _how_ did you summon him?" the Hokage enquires with as much patience as he can muster, even while his head pounds and his mind teeters somewhere between disbelief and worry. "Naruto please answer me, this is very serious. How did you summon him?"

The boy says nothing for a while, and then his arms worm out from behind the clothing he's hidden in. "Like this," he says, and puts his hands into clumsy seals, one after another. "Saw someone do it, and summon a dog, so I tried it myself. And it worked and he's mine and you can't take him away from me. So there!" and then the boy's hidden again while Hiruzen looks at the green eyed man in shock.

A summoned creature? No, that can't be. Can it? Frowning, he looks the man from top to bottom. What little he can see is completely human. But then, he can't see much, only the man's head really, the rest is covered in thick folds of his very plentiful clothing. For all he knew, the man could have a reptilian body under all the cloaks and capes he wears. And then there was also the weird chakra… and the shield too.

Shield which he had made not with hand seals, but with the sound of his voice.

"Is it possible?" Ushi asks quietly, turning to the Hokage, his sword coming down a bit. "He's just a boy; he shouldn't be able to use chakra yet, not to mention something like summoning! Sir, do you think…?"

Does he think? Hiruzen frowns. What he thinks is that Naruto is a jinchuuriki and that his seal is unique, meant to blend some of Kyubi's chakra into the boy's chakra coils and what he worries is that it might already be happening. Naruto might already have some measure of access to Kyubi's chakra. But to summon? The boy has no contract. And, as far as Hiruzen knows, there is no contract for something more humanoid than monkey's.

And demons.

His eyes narrowing, the Hokage stares at the bespectacled green eyed man with wild black hair. Could it be…? Naruto had seen someone summon a dog, probably thinking they had been summoning a pet for themselves… and then had decided to summon himself a _family_.

The green eyed man looks back calmly, and even with a barrier of language between them, Hiruzen can see it written clear as day on the man's eyes. He _wouldn't_ be separated from Naruto, not by anyone.

"Well," Hiruzen says under his breath. "If he is somehow a summoned creature, the summoning will fade at some point. Once it does, we know and if not… then we know something else." Turning to the Ushi team he smiled grimly. "I suppose until then we can't but wait and see."

"Is that wise, sir?" Ushi asks worriedly.

"Wiser than engaging the man and putting Naruto in danger," Hiruzen says. "For now, let's try and get them off the training grounds and somewhere safer. Not the orphanage though."

"What? No, I want to go home and show everyone that I have family!" Naruto says instantly, peeking out from above the green eyed man's arm.

"Now, Naruto, I'm not sure if that's a -"

"No! I wanna go home!" the boy yells back, making the so called summon shift beneath him with a frown.

Hiruzen hesitates. "Alright then. The orphanage it is," he says and turns to Ushi. "I need ANBU operatives to replace the staff at the orphanage before Naruto and his… _family_ makes it there. Hopefully this won't be for long but for as long as it takes, I want this man watched at all times and all the children well protected. Naruto included."

"Yes, sir," Ushi says and after a moment of hesitation jumps away, his team following.

"Now, Naruto, how about we go back?" Hiruzen asks, holding out a hand. "You must be hungry and your friends are all waiting for you."

"What friends?" the boy murmurs, but crawls out from beneath the green eyed man's arms and stands up, stretching. With a blink, the green eyed man shifts and stands up as well, making a rather strange image. He isn't quite as tall as some men Hiruzen had seen, but he makes up for what he lacks in height with the sheer magnitude of his clothing. They had seemed plentiful when he had been sitting, but now that he is standing and all the folds fall as they had been intended to, the clothing looks magnificent and almost ceremonial.

Long flowing black cloak with its deep hood, the red robes beneath it, with their enormous sleeves that reach the ground, and the many layers of his robes' hems. It's a _lot_ of cloth. The man also has a thick leather belt around the waist of the robes, with a variety of satchels and what looks like several phials hanging from it, along with two long leather tubes, one at each hip like weapons holsters, except what ever is in them has wooden handles.

As the blue, shimmering shield around the man and the boy fades, Naruto takes the robed man's sleeve into his fingers and begins tugging. The man goes willingly, falling in step with Naruto and putting one protective, sleeve covered hand on the boy's shoulders, the sleeve and the hem of his black cloak coming to shield the boy once more.

Well, if nothing, the man seems gentle towards Naruto, Hiruzen muses, worried and curious all at once, and then motions the pair of them to follow him as he begins leading them back towards the village, and the orphanage.

x

Something I might or might not continue in the near future, featuring Harry who would become the ultimate mamabear for all the orphans of Konoha. I want to continue, got some wonderful plans for this, but there's NaNoWriMo just around the corner and I got some lovely plans for that too... choices choices.


	59. Theory of Duality, Naruto cross

Warnings; Naruto Cross with reincarnation, some oocness and weirdness, minute contemplation of torture and rape. I dunno.

**Theory of Duality**

Hermione is first of them to wake up to herself. She is half years old at the time, and it's the name people call her that calls her to awareness. "Harumi-oni," a teasing voice calls her, and she knows herself once more, remembers herself, and remembers the spell.

There isn't much she can do right then, though. She is only old enough to barely support her head, and that is more or less it. Her body is still clumsy and weak, bursting with new life and vulnerable to new experiences and more or less useless. She can't speak beyond monosyllabic warbles, can't move beyond flinging her hands and wiggling her legs clumsily. Unable to do much and thoroughly incapable of communication, all she can is watch and observe.

Her new mother is young, dark haired woman with dark green eyes and baffled smile – her name is Haruka, Hermione learns a bit after her awakening. She is Haruka's first child. If there is a father, Hermione never sees him – instead she sees another woman, Haruki, who is Haruka's elder sister and who looks almost exactly like her. Haruki is the one who calls Hermione _Harumi-oni_ with a teasing grin before blowing raspberries against Hermione's belly. Together they take care of Hermione, neither having much experience, sharing the burden with sisterly efficiency and rivalry.

The two women live together in a small apartment of unpainted wood, where the furniture is simple and low – they have no chairs, the tables are all short legged, and they sleep on the floor. Hermione, or Harumi as she is called now, sleeps between them in a comfortable niche made of pillows and blankets, and when ever she wakes in the night, uncomfortable with a soiled nappy or painfully empty belly, one or the other is quick to tend to her uneasy grumbling.

For good year that is more or less all Hermione knows of her new life, those little confines of the house and what she can see of it and of the two women she is now related to. Learning the language Haruka and Haruki speak in takes a while – it is very alien, and it takes Hermione a while to get the grasp of the sentence structures – but bit by bit she learns, starting with the word meaning mother and going from there onwards, bit by bit coming to know the words spoken to her, and around her.

And figures that the place she has been reborn in isn't the one she had been expecting.

Haruka and Haruki had only just gotten adjusted to having such a quiet, well behaved child to care for before Hermione starts asking questions. And they're not the questions they had been expecting either, Hermione can see that in the way their eyes widen, how they pause to look at her, how they exchange glances. If she had been a little less worried, Hermione might've taken some pains to try and act like the eighteen month old child she is supposed to be, but she doesn't and she is worried.

"What is the name of the world?" is her first question, and the answer confirms her worries. "Where do we live?" is the second one – _Village Hidden in Leaves_ which confuses her for a moment and makes her wonder if she still has some problems in understanding the language. It sounds alien to her, but soon she chalks it as one of those peculiar quirks of naming places and the false-non-figurativeness of a newly learned language and moves on. "What country is it in?" the answer of which is _Land of Fire_ which tells her very little.

"Why do you want to know?" Haruka, who had been the one to answer her questions, asks her with a confused smile.

"I just want to know where I am," Hermione answers, uneasy and worried and maybe a bit exhilarated too. When they had cast the spell, they had figured that they'd be reborn more or less where they had lived – maybe in another country, another continent even, but the same _place_ more or less and close to the same time. The strangeness of what this place _is_ might be caused by time and changing of the world, shifting of languages, or maybe…

And yet the language Haruka and Haruki speak in – the one Hermione is slowly learning – doesn't sound like anything she's ever heard on earth, and she had heard most of them at least in passing. Both the women are human – as is Hermione – and yet there is some odd quality to the world, as little as Hermione has been able to observe it, that makes her wonder.

Maybe it's another world. She hadn't considered that possibility at the time, and now it seems a bit strange, but more than that it is worrying. She is here, she is herself again – not in body maybe, but her mind is all there, with all her memories – but the spell had done something unexpected.

If the parameters of the spell could be stretched this far, to include other worlds, then… what about the other factors?

What about Harry and Ron?

x

Harry remembers slowly, in fits and bursts and dreams. At first time passes in odd scenes – he has a dream of the life he had lead once upon a time and then wakes up in a infant body in a dark room, baffled and uneasy, and confused only more by the stranger who comes to soothe his anxious whimpering – and when he falls asleep again later, tired and confused and not quite there yet, time passes on fast. The periods when eh doesn't remember are longer than the ones he does, and days, weeks and months pass before has another dream and another moment of confused clarity.

He is almost year old when he remembers his name and with it most of himself. The woman who is his mother – or so he suspects, she might've been a caretaker or maybe his grandmother, she isn't very young – calls him Hari, which had confused him for a long while. Going from Hari to Harry doesn't relieve all of the confusion at first – he doesn't remember the spell at first and for a long while it seems like he's been ripped from his life and imprisoned in his new, helpless body and it feels a bit like a curse. He is frustrated and infuriated in turns, and then guilty as the woman who might be his mother tries to soothe his fits and can't.

The woman who might be his mother eventually takes him to hospital, where people poke and prod at him, take his pulse and some of his blood and try and figure out if there is something wrong with him. He is in the hospital for yet another bout of examination when he finally remembers the spell and calms down a bit as the confusion passes and is replaced by relief – it had _worked_. By that time, though, the doctors – if they are doctors, they don't act quite right for that – are so invested in finding out what is wrong with him, that it takes few days before his mother/caretaker takes him back home.

What she makes of his change in attitude is hard to tell, but rather embarrassedly Harry takes in her open relief when the child she had had so much trouble with before suddenly quiets down. While she adjusts to the new calm in her household, Harry examines her and his surroundings as well as he can, taking in his new life.

The woman, who probably is his mother, isn't quite as old as he had assumed. A bit past her middle age maybe, but not as old as he had first though – the appearance of agedness was caused by not wrinkles, but scars. It was almost as if someone had intentionally drawn age-lines and wrinkles on her face with the tip of a knife – they run from the corner of her eyes and at the side of her nose, over her forehead in almost delicate and yet horrifying pattern. They are made all the more horrible by the fact that now that Harry really _looks_, he can see that she had been a beautiful woman before them, with proud, lean face, with her pale blue eyes and black hair only enhancing the almost regal beauty she had once had.

It doesn't take him long to figure out that what had been done to her had been done deliberately and that it had had deep effect on her. It's in her posture, the way she slumps, in her hair, which always covers most of her hair, in the drab, colourless clothing she wears, the way she very rarely goes out side, and always opens the door only partially. Occasionally he can see what a proud woman she had been before, but she definitely isn't one anymore – whatever torture had been done to her had drained away most if not all her self confidence.

Sometimes, with unease, he wonders if he's a product of her torture. There is no man in her house, not that he's ever seen one, and though she seems to have some friends, they are all women and she rarely, if ever, opens her door to a man. She is gentle with him, and he can see she loves him, though, so regardless of who was his father how however he had been conceived, she placed no blame in him.

It takes him a while to learn her name – Tomomi – because of how few guests she has. A bit guiltily Harry concedes that he might've learned it before, back when they had still been regularly visiting the hospital, but he had been too entangled in his own frustration to really listen to the people around him. Now that he does, there are very few discussions to be listened. Tomomi is a quiet woman, who spends most of her time tidying up the house and sewing, and she is very short spoken even when she tends to him, doing very little of the baby-talking Harry had thought most women did automatically around babies.

Because of that, it takes him a lot longer than he would've liked to get the hang of the spoken language, and even then he has to work at it, to make noises and when he learns enough, to ask. "What is?" is the first thing he learns to speak in Tomomi's language, and at first she only gives very short and simple answers and so he learns the name of things and very little else. But as he keeps asking, she explains a bit more, slowly growing accustomed to an inquisitive child, smiling indulgently if somewhat absently at him as she explains what things are and how they work.

Harry shies away from the questions that really interest him – and he's already figured out that the world is different, he had seen it in the trips to the hospital. He can still remember the gentle hands of the doctor, coated in film of gently glowing green that felt like muscle relaxants and a massage all at once. The one thing he finds himself most curious about is his father – and that he doesn't dare to ask.

He does figure that Tomomi hasn't spent her entire life alone. The house they live in is a sizable one with several extra rooms – he has his own room, even. Tomomi herself sleeps in a large room with a low bed big enough for three, and when ever Harry wakes up early enough to peek around the house, he finds her sleeping on one side – left side, never the right one, the one closest to the window.

Sometimes Tomomi looks forlornly at the house they live in. Sometimes she looks lonely.

But he doesn't dare to ask.

Instead he wonders about Hermione and Ron and whether they are somewhere in the Hidden Leaf Village, and how long it would take before he was old enough to try and find them.

x

Ron can't quite remember being unaware of himself, but when he really looks at his life and figures that he is older than the children around him, including those physically older than him, the knowledge settles in. It feels a bit like he had been looking the world through a screen before, through a thick veil, and that he had been aware of things but hadn't really taken part in them. When he does, he becomes himself in a way he hadn't been until that point.

His new name is Itachoi Ron, and for a while he absently wonders if it's the spell that had named him, rather than the people of the orphanage where he lives in. Later he will learn much to his amusement that he learned to speak faster than Hermione does – by the age of one he can already speak, though with a slight lisp and words coming in wrong order. It's mostly thanks to how much people talk around him and the fact that he hadn't really been _unaware_ as much as he hadn't _reacted_ to the knowledge his old life.

It doesn't really matter to him in the long run.

He is one of good four dozen orphans who live in the Konoha Orphanage and who sleep and eat and play out their days under the keen supervision of half a dozen watchful caretakers. The difference between his two lives is startlingly non-existent, he finds, as he's surrounded by kids at all sides of all age ranges. It feels less like he's an orphan and more like he has five times as much siblings than he had the last time around – but then he doesn't really feel the lack of loving, attentive parents the way the other orphans do, being older than his short two years even if it's all in his mind.

He learns about the world they are in quicker than Hermione and Harry do too. That's thanks to the fact that the caretakers are under strict orders about how to educate their charges and so there are often lessons in the orphanage, to which all those who can sit still for long enough are ushered to. Ron can sit still, though his little body seems to be bursting with energy and eagerness and need to just _do_ something, his mind needs more than that.

The Village Hidden in Leaves is _fascinating_. And not at all what he had been expecting, when Hermione had came up with the spell. It doesn't take Ron all that long to figure out that the world he is in now isn't quite the same one he had left behind – though there are similarities that make him wonder. The fact that people are _people_ for one. Materials in which things are made off, for another – wood for furniture, cotton for clothing, and so on. The rice they eat so often, if oddly cooked, isn't quite that far removed from the rice he's occasionally eaten in his old life. Little similarities, between all the differences.

It's the differences that interest him, not the similarities – and there are lot of differences, from the small things like clothing and furniture, to the big thing like continents and politics and _magical arts_. Except here, they don't call them _magica_l arts. Instead they are known as shinobi arts, and rather than being something only few and far between can do, everyone can manage them.

Except those that do all do so in military service – serving as a part of what Ron figures is a nation wide mercenary force, serving under the Shadow of a certain country, the commander of all of that land's shinobi who only answers to the Daimyo of the land. And Ron, it seems, is not just citizen of the Land of Fire, but he is _in_ Fire Country's single shinobi village, the Village Hidden in Leaves.

All the kids in the orphanage want to become ninja when they grow up – some are already on their way to the life. Most of the elder kids, those older than 7 and 8, go to the Academy for lessons every day, coming back with boastful stories and new bruises, holding their new knowledge over the younger kids with glee. Those younger than the admittance age are all moaning and whining about how they can't wait and why can't they go early, all of them looking forward to it.

Ron is too. He figures it's the best chance he has at finding Hermione and Harry – if not in the academy itself, then once he's older, as a shinobi, when he has the tools and knowledge of the trade of a mercenary. He figures finding people is in the job description.

x

The moment Hermione is old enough for Haruka and Haruki to let her out on her own – she's six at the time, mature for her age, responsible – she sets out try and find Harry or Ron, hopefully both. The Village Hidden in Leaves is a strange, wonderful place that spreads out before her, ready and yet completely unwilling to reveal it's secrets to her, full of things new and old, strange and inviting.

For all that it is in essence a military village full of mercenaries and assassins, it is a very calm and safe place as far as she can tell. Haruka and Haruki neither had been too worried about letting their _Harumi-oni_ out, and it doesn't take long for Hermione to figure out why not. Hidden Leaf, in that basic _civilian_ level, is safe. There are no pickpockets and no robbers in Hidden Leaf, no questionable-characters, and very little, if any, crime. Very few who would harm a little girl of six years.

What it has are monsters of murderous might, but shinobi are a brand of people somewhat removed from the level where she, currently, exists. They both with their existence and their indifference make Hidden Leaf safe – it's simply not a place where crime can easily exist on that simple scale that might harm one such as she. Oh, Hermione is under no illusions about the village being _pure_ and completely free of crime, no. It _is_ a shinobi village and she can only imagine what sort of espionage, murder, theft and whatnot is committed in that world. But those are shinobi affairs – and when you have clan secrets and village intel to spy and steal, what does one little girl matter?

It is a very fascinating thing, to be in what she can only assume it's the most dangerous place she's ever been in – and be completely safe because of it. It makes her first wanderings a bit haphazard and aimless, as she, unable to help herself, tests it, wandering first the main streets, then the backstreets, going to the places where her _Earth_-mother would've told her not to go even as an adult. Yet here… it's all safe. If anything, the backstreets are a bit safer than the main streets, as there you're a little less likely to be run over by a shinobi in hurrying to his or her duty – though considering most ninja use the rooftops for travel, that is rare.

Eventually though she gets used to the odd, uncanny freedom a little girl can have in Hidden Leaf – it's a strange thing, but even strange things become boring when they're so commonplace. Soon she turns her attention from the free run of the village, to the task of finding her friends.

In the local library she finds out that about eight hundred children were born in Hidden Leaf in the year she was, but the records hold no name – sensibly enough, it is a _military_ village after all. There she also finds out about the local orphanage, Hidden Leaf's only one, but whether that is of any use is a different thing. She had been born to a woman, after all, to a family – Ron and Harry might've done too, if they were in Hidden Leaf at all. If the spell held true, they would be – but the spell had showed some strange qualities, so how trustworthy its limitations are…

"What a curious reading material you're after, dearie," the librarian comments, after Hermione puts the books away and then asks for the directions of the orphanage. "You one of those geniuses then?"

"Just curious," Hermione says, but here she isn't quite as shy about showing her intelligence as she might've been, back on earth – and yet, maybe she's also more shy, in a way. Hidden Leaf and its people treasure genius, they are put on pedestal and that would've been more or less fine, except for one thing. Hidden Leaf's genii tended to become working shinobi at _very_ early age, and she had by now learned more than enough about what the shinobi where and what they did to stay away from it, for now.

After thanking the bemused librarian, Hermione goes to check out the orphanage of Hidden Leaf, not letting herself get any high hopes. Partially she expects to find Harry there – that was what he had always been, after all, even if it's a very unfair thought – but she doesn't the expectations get the best of her.

In the maze of Hidden Leaf she nearly gets lost and it's late afternoon when he makes to the metal fences circling around the orphanage grounds. There, leaning onto the metal mesh, she watches the children playing in the yard keenly, looking for the familiar mop of black hair. If Harry is here, she knows she will recognize him – she looks more or less herself, wild brown hair, brown eyes and renewed buck-teeth and all. Harry would be pale, messy haired, green eyed and skinny and she'd know him anywhere.

But he isn't there. A boy, a bit tall for his years, with flaming red hair and freckles all over, is, however. When he dashes forward to introduce himself, with a glint of recognition in his eyes, it's like wind has been knocked from Hermione's sails – she had been worried, so, so worried.

"Itachoi Ron," he says, sticking his hand through the mesh of the fence.

"Chuunou Harumi-oni," Hermione answers instinctively, and then blushes, having spoken her aunt's nickname without meaning to. Ron laughs, delighted, and they shake hands tightly – a gesture as alien to this world, as it is to them.

x

Because of Tomomi's somewhat antisocial tendencies, Harry grows up mostly alone. It's not bad, as childhood goes – if anything, it's good. Tomomi is a relatively wealthy woman and he never lacks anything – he even gets his glasses a whole lot earlier this time, at age of four rather than at seven like he had with Dursleys. Tomomi never gets him much toys or anything very extravagant though – her own dislike of going to the public hinders that, not that he ever even wanted toys – but within the confines of their house, Harry already has more than enough to occupy himself. And eventually that also occupies her, too.

Which, he figures out, is good for both of them. They are quiet, withdrawn individuals, both of them, and show very little physical affection for one another, so to find something in common, be it his need to learn to read and write and learn or her need to keep everything almost obsessively tidy and neat, brings them a bit closer. She teaches him to read the simpler characters by the time he's five, and he helps her around the house as much as possible, so accustomed to chores that it's all pretty much second nature to him.

And he learns. More from their private library, than from her really – because unlike her lost husband, she isn't a shinobi.

It was and still is a relief that he isn't the product of brutality. No, he has a father, a legitimate father whom his mother still loved, and they both, mother and her alien son, carry that man's name even. Toukou – not a clan name by any means, Harry's new father was the first ninja in his family, but still inherited and therefore precious.

Since little bore Harry's birth, Toukou Chi had been held captive in the Land of Earth's hidden village, Village Hidden in Stone – a prisoner of war, captured during a spy mission, most likely never to be released.

"He was a good man," is all Tomomi has ever to say about Chi. Whether it is because she thinks her husband is already long dead or that even if he's alive she's never going to see him – or because she hadn't really, truly loved him that much – is hard to say. Harry never asks, since talking for her is always so difficult, more so when it's about personal matters – and in truth, the scrolls Chi had left behind tell more about the man, than Tomomi ever does.

He had been a jounin by rank, ANBU by designation – part of the Special Assassination and Tactical Squad. In essence, the highest ranking spy and assassin there was in Hidden Leaf. His records are of course sealed beyond that and there is not a single line about his duties in the scrolls or the books in their library – but there is plenty of ninjutsu knowledge. Chi, Harry learns, had been something of a prodigy, having mastered two elements, Lightning and Fire, and having had some skill with the other three, Wind, Water and Earth. And his library shows it too.

Not all of it, though. While Harry struggles through the difficult Kanji the information is most often written in, he soon figures out that the library has been culled of the most valuable information. Probably by Chi's superiors or squad mates, upon his capture, had seized the more dangerous and important ninjutsu information. Or maybe someone had just broken in and stolen what was valuable. In the end, most of what remains is general knowledge, some what Harry assumes are very low level ninjutsu instructions and theories of chakra and chakra control and whatnot. Very little, for an elite ninja's library.

For Harry, though, it's an extremely precious well of information. Of all the things in his new world, the ninja-arts hold the most interest to him, as does the ninja life – he knows without doubt that would be where he would find Hermione and Ron if they were in this world.

And that would be where he could maybe, eventually, free himself from his new mother's somewhat smothering care. Tomomi is kind in her own way, if a bit aloof and absent-minded, and he does appreciate her greatly – she might not be the most motherly person around, doesn't hold a candle to one Molly Weasley, but when compared to Petunia Dursley she is a shining example of motherhood.

She, however, never lets him leave the house without her. Even when he wants to go out to the front or back garden, he has to have her permission. Whether it is because she holds a real fear for his safety, or it is just another expression of her own anxious compulsions is hard to tell, but he tries not to argue with her. The few times he had, when the need to try and find his friends had been a bit more pressing, hadn't been pretty.

Tomomi didn't yell at hit, didn't punish him, didn't even get angry at him. Instead she broke apart – not quite crying but… drawing in on herself, like unsure of the very air around her. And worse of all, she shied away from _him_, like he with his skinny six year old physique could be some sort of danger to her, like he would ever hurt her.

"Am I a bad mother?" she would ask later, when he had assured her that of course he wouldn't disobey her, that he'd stay, not to worry, everything was alright. "Am I horrible mother to you, Hari? You're all I have; I don't want to be a bad mother to you."

It had nearly broken his heart for her and he hadn't argued with her again. It took too much out of her, and after every minute break down she is a bit less confident and a bit more anxious. And though he has to admit that his need to keep her more or less stable has a very selfish motivation – he doesn't want to be taken away from her, from her house and from the well of information that is the house library – he also doesn't want her to lose herself completely.

Sometimes he wishes that this world had people like mind healers and psychiatrists or anything that worked with the health of a person's mind. Considering the amount of ninja and what they did for living – what effect it must have on them – there _should_ be something and yet…

Though maybe that is in a certain way reflection to what shinobi are and what they do. To have an occupation dedicated to preserving their minds would be rather like admitting that the job of a shinobi was detrimental to the mind – and a shinobi village couldn't have that sort of morale-drain.

Considering her anxiety, Harry sometimes wonders how she can still be willing to let him learn shinobi arts, and how she doesn't argue against his wish to enter the Academy. One would think that in her position she would be against shinobi and all their stood for – it was probably a ninja or someone who knew ninja arts who ruined her face too, considering how many pointed things they used, and how skilled and cold-blooded one had to be to carve her face the way it had been carved. And yet…

"You're going to be a strong boy, aren't you, Hari?" she asks instead, when she hands him the application for the Academy. "Attend to your lessons and learn everything you can and one day you're going to be a strong ninja, like your father."

"Yes, of course," he answers, a bit puzzled – sometimes she makes no sense. But he wants to become a shinobi, wants to go to the academy, of course he does, and so he lets the confusion about her slip aside, and instead signs the papers with his awkward chicken scrawl of Kanji – Toukou Hari, it looks so strange in the odd symbols and yet it is him. And shinobi is his future.

Hopefully Ron and Hermione will be in that future too.

x

There is no way to really express how damned relieved Ron was, when Hermione found him. He hadn't minded his life, not really – and still wouldn't even if she hadn't come. Life in the orphanage is lively and cheerful, not exactly carefree but very enjoyable – and with the future of the Academy to look forward to, he had pretty much his life set up until that point.

But until he had seen Hermione standing outside the orphanage fence, a little girl with wild brown hair in lopsided ponytail, dressed in browns and greens, he had been so worried that he'd be experiencing his life _alone_. Sure he could've made friends, he could've befriended anyone – he had, even, in the orphanage, and would be going to the Academy with plenty of mates. But this was different.

This was _Hermione_.

"Merurin, but I was worried I was the only one!" is the first thing she had said to him after their introduction, her voice familiar if the language isn't, and he almost laughed again.

They had spent most of that afternoon, sitting with the fence between them, talking in hushed tones and falling quiet when ever someone came near by – sharing experiences and worries and plans. Most of what they know and had learned is similar – with bits differing. Ron knows more about the history and politics thanks to his lessons in the orphanage, while Hermione knows more about the geography and sciences and both come to the unanimous conclusion that this is indeed a different world, and not just a different time.

Plotting for future was hard then, and still is, though – because neither of them had seen Harry yet, and didn't know if he'd be there, anywhere. "He should be," Hermione says often, worried and determined all at once. "He powered the spell mostly by himself, he _should_ be here."

"He is," Ron answers, again and again. "He has to be. We'll go to the Academy and we'll find him. Alright?"

That is another thing they both agree to, more or less. Hermione is worried – she imagines horrors for them, being what they are, adults in skins of children which to most if not all would appear as if they were geniuses. And Hidden Leaf or indeed any hidden village wasn't quite that kind to their geniuses, turning them into weapons as soon as possible, both for the use and the fame of it.

"Well, it's not that bad, the way I've been able to figure it," Ron says thoughtfully. "Not anymore, not since the war. Usually it's just the clan children they let graduate early and so on – and usually it's the clans that force it. No one really cares that much about the nobodies, even if they are geniuses."

"Genii," Hermione answers, frowning. "Are you sure?"

Ron shrugs. He's seen and heard enough of the older students complaining, about how this or that clan child was put on a higher grade than them even though they did just as well in school. "I guess it's more about the reputation of the clans than. I heard there was once a six year old chuunin. Do you think they'd actually let a kid that age on the sort of missions chuunins are usually put to."

"No, I guess not," Hermione admits, looking at him strangely. "You really have been studying."

"Just because I don't like reading doesn't make me stupid," Ron pouts. "It's a different world, I'd have to be a idiot not to pay attention and try and figure things out. Besides I figured that going for the academy would be the easiest way to find you and Harry."

"You think Harry is really going to go to the Academy?"

"It's Harry," Ron says with a shrug. Harry had been pretty much a wizard version of a shinobi in their previous life – and Ron had never known a man who had loved magic more than Harry – especially battle magic. If Harry is there and alive, he'd become shinobi for sure.

"Alright," Hermione says, still worried but apparently making a decision. "Then we'll go to the Academy."

It's a bit funny, Ron reflects, how worried she is, everything considered. They are literally living their _second_ lives, and if they can somehow translate the spell into ninjutsu, there might one day be a time when they'd be living their third or fourth lives and so on. What there is to be worried about? Death? They have cheated it once – and they have all lived full, long lives. Death now wouldn't really be that big of a set back.

Though maybe it's different for her. Hermione had been born into a family. Well, Ron had too, but he had been orphaned during the Kyuubi attack, lot of children had, and maybe he had a bit less to loose.

"What are they like, your parents?" he asks through the fence, wondering if it would be different to live in Hidden Leaf, with a family.

"Well, it's just my mother," Hermione admits. "My mother, Haruka, she had fling with some traveller and never saw him again. She raised me alone – with her sister, they live together. I suppose it's a bit like I have two mothers."

"That must be fun," Ron comments with a snort, remembering his own mother – the one from their previous life. One had been quite enough for him.

"It actually is, sort of. They're not much like my mother and father from before, but they're… they're nice," Hermione shrugs and then looks guiltily at him. "I'm sorry about your parents."

"Don't be. I'm fine – the orphanage isn't that bad, all things considered," Ron shrugs and then stops, hands in the pockets of his dark blue trousers, staring ahead.

There is a woman with long, black hair there, near the gates of the Academy grounds – and she is leading on a pale skinned, black haired boy with glasses. It takes Ron a moment to recognise the boy – not because he doesn't _look_ like Harry, but because of what he wears. Harry had always worn mostly greens, with the occasional brown thrown into mix, but here he only has black on him; long sleeved black shirt, black slacks, black sandals, black everything.

Hermione and Ron grab each others arms instinctively, to stop themselves and each other from calling out and rushing forward – they can't in front of the woman, Harry's mother most likely, and neither know what Harry's name is. Instead they watch, Ron silently begging for his friend to notice them – and of course, Harry does, no doubt feeling their stares.

The only sign of recognition Harry gives them is slight pause and widening of his eyes – visibly green even at this distance. But then he looks away, to the woman, and turns his back to them – unable to come to them under her eyes, not yet. Together he and the woman head through the gates and to the academy grounds, neither giving a backwards glance – the woman having missed the exchange entirely.

Left behind, Ron feels his knees buckle a bit with release of years of anxious attention and worry. Hermione's grip on his arm is tight enough to hurt, as the girl takes support of him – as he takes support of her.

"Oh goodness, oh… gosh," Hermione breathes and lets out a feeble laugh. "I'm so relieved, I feel like I'm going to faint!"

"Don't," Ron says, and they share a shaky grin before setting out in a run, dashing after Harry, eager for the first opportunity to _introduce_ themselves to him, and to rekindle an age old friendship.

x

What I've managed to write in the last couple of days, through ridiculously thigh writer's block. Dunno how much I like it yet, though, but it's letting itself be written, somehow. Will have to see if I'll continue longer than this and what comes out of it.


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